


Painting Pictures On Silence

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 56,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the Kink Meme, approximately a million years ago.</p><p> </p><p>Greg Lestrade is one of the biggest rock stars of his generation - talented as fuck, gorgeous, and been at the top of his game for nearly thirty years. But his band is facing an uncertain future after their drummer OD'd in a Little Chef off the M1, and Lestrade is spending his time turning his band's greatest hits into a West End musical. But it's nearly ready to open, and it seems someone is murdering his cast.</p><p>Scotland Yard's crack team of Dimmock and Donovan are stumped. Enter Sherlock, and his assistant John who is secretly one of Lestrade's biggest fans. Sherlock wants to solve the murders and get out of there as soon as possible. John wants to solve the murders, and also snog the face off Lestrade.</p><p>Lestrade just wants his career to end on a high, not getting slagged off by two-bit theatre reviewers in the Evening Standard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Painting Pictures On Silence, traduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3576162) by [AmeliaXOXO](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmeliaXOXO/pseuds/AmeliaXOXO)



> Comments and constructive crit most welcome.
> 
> Beta'd by Impishtubist and Eloquar, with thanks. :)

John looked up at the large poster above them as Sherlock paid the cab off.

"You are kidding me," he said, turning to look at Sherlock. "Murder? Here?"

Sherlock gave him a blank look in return.

John pointed at the poster, on which was advertised a whodunnit mystery play, helpfully titled 'The Butler Did It'.

Sherlock walked past, heading straight for the small stage door. "If you used your observational powers you would see that production ended its run last week," Sherlock said, as he waited for the door to be answered.

"Oh," John looked up to see he was right, feeling slightly disappointed. "So what's playing now?"

"Final rehearsals." Was all Sherlock managed to say before the door was opened by a bald man, wearing a v-neck jumper and small gold glasses.

"Yes?" he asked, looking at them with obvious suspicion.

"Holmes, Watson, Scotland Yard," Sherlock answered, flashing what John assumed to be one of Dimmock's ID cards. "We're here regarding the murders."

John raised his eyebrows at the plural, and followed Sherlock and the man into the theatre, dodging stray pieces of set, furniture and props as they walked quickly through the bowels of the building before eventually ending up in the wings. John glanced behind him, not entirely sure he'd ever find his way back without help.

On the stage were dancers, a man wearing some far-too-tight sports gear and leg-warmers, who was shouting, and another man wearing a suit jacket and a cravat, who seemed to be stroking his chin a lot.

The dancers were doing something which looked very fast and complex, and John assumed the shouty man was the choreographer. He let his attention wander, and spotted a whole group of people standing in the opposite wings, all watching and occasionally talking to one another. He squinted slightly, recognising one of the men, taking in the slight silver sheen of the short hair, and trying to place the face.

"Jesus Christ!" he suddenly exclaimed, making Sherlock turn and look at him and earning a scowl from the bald man. "Over there, the...with the jeans and checked shirt on...thats Lestrade!"

Sherlock looked as if he perked up a little. "Is it? Excellent, he's who we're here to see. Do you know him?"

John gaped. "Know...he...he's a massive star, Sherlock, of course I don't know him. He's...a legend! What are we...why..." He was cut off by a shout.

"No, no, for fuck's sake. This is supposed to be a dream - a fantasy, I've seen a fucking fishmonger look more passionate about gutting trout than you lot do about this song." Lestrade strode onto the stage, one hand gesturing his obvious annoyance. "Look, this is..." he turned and squinted at John and Sherlock. "You," he pointed directly at John. "Come here."

John glanced behind himself, but there was no one there. He looked back at Lestrade - at the rock legend who stood before him, looking more than a bit pissed off and was beckoning him forward.

"Come on! Haven't got all bloody day."

John walked forward, feeling as if he were definitely in a dream as he stepped into the lights.

"Right, look, this whole song is you fantasising about what you're going to do when the two of you get together. Most of you look like you think your partners got the clap. When you stand together," he grabbed John's shoulders and placed him firmly in front of himself. "You need to move like you want to climb into your partner's skin - you need to..." he shifted, so he was pressed right up against John's back, then reached around, sliding his arms across John's body, crossing them, then drawing his hands up over John's chest.

John thought he might very well be about to embarrass himself in front of quite a lot of people, as one of his idols - not to mention the fact the man was hotter than boiling jam - ran his hands sensuously over his body. He kept his arms rigidly down to his sides, and could feel every muscle in his body tense.

"This is...this has to leave the audience thinking that if you weren't wearing clothes one of you would end up pregnant before the end of the act," his hold relaxed, but he still kept a hand on John's shoulder. "And why the fuck are you all in boy - girl couples? This is the twenty first fucking century, I think the London stage is ready for some same sex dancing, isn't it?" He turned and glared at the choreographer, who nodded furiously.

"Right." And Lestrade seemed to realise he still had hold of John. "Sorry, mate, as you were," he said, patting John's shoulder and moving to walk back to the wings.

"Oh, no were...I mean, we're here to see you, actually, Les...Mister...uh...Sir," he stammered out.

"See...oh, I thought you were lighting or something, sorry mate, didn't mean to grab you - you should have said. Come this way," he beckoned as he headed back to the wings, so John turned and beckoned Sherlock in turn, noting that Sherlock was watching the dancers with utter distaste.

"What can I do for you?" Lestrade asked, stopping in a small area that was lit, and full of what looked like sound equipment. "You from one of the mags?"

"We're here regarding the murders," Sherlock said, voice monotone. "I understand two of your cast members have now been found dead."

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah, that's right. Christ, I...well, I've already told you lot everything I know, really. You're the guy the Inspector told me about, right? Um...Shylock?"

"Sherlock," Sherlock replied, looking even less impressed, whilst John was still staring at Lestrade, eyes wide.

"Yeah. Well, I'll help all I can, but I mean, I didn't know these kids, they just happen to be in my show. I've probably only met them a handful of times. And the other guy said he thought one of them might have been suicide."

Sherlock nodded. "He’s an idiot. Clearly murder. But regardless, I need you to answer some questions. How did they come to be in the show? What selection process was there?"

"Auditions, of course. People sent in tapes, we got a shortlist, then auditioned. It was exactly the same as everyone else does."

"I'll need the tapes of the two victims," Sherlock answered.

"Really? Sure, they're at my house though. I can get them to you...I dunno, tomorrow?"

"John can accompany you home now," Sherlock replied. "He can bring them to me when you return to the city later."

"Um, yes," John nodded, trying not to seem too eager.

"Oh, right, sure..." Lestrade's brow creased. "How did you know I was going home?"

Sherlock glanced around the room, obviously bored of the conversation. "You have your car outside, and are wearing casual clothes. You're due on a talk show tonight, and they'll send a car to collect you from your home for that, after you've changed clothing."

"It...yeah," Lestrade shook his head slightly as if trying to gather his thoughts. "Um...I've got a few things to do here, first. Is it urgent? I mean, I can..."

"No," Sherlock waved a hand. "John doesn't have anything else to do. Good day," he turned and walked back across the stage, avoiding dancers and being glared at by both choreographer and director.

John turned to Lestrade and smiled. "Um, I'll just..." he gestured around vaguely.

"Yeah - look, sorry, but we're in a bit of a mess, so...I won't be too long, an hour tops?" he pushed his hand through his hair, making the grey strands stand up in spikes.

John just nodded, still feeling as if he'd walked into a dream.

 

He watched as Lestrade spoke to the director, then the cast, watched more scenes and songs with varying degrees of happiness, and occasionally what looked like despair. More than once he covered his face and shook his head, as if he couldn’t bear to witness any more.

John found himself humming along to the big hits, and thought of all the albums he had at home - wishing Sherlock had told him so he could have got at least one of them signed. Although he did wonder if that might seem unprofessional. Still, it wasn't often he got to meet a genuine rock legend, and his threshold for embarrassment had increased significantly since meeting Sherlock.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out.

'Make sure you look around his house. Take pictures of anything you can, particularly office, kitchen and garage. Attempt to listen to any answerphone messages. SH.'

John stared at his phone. He should have known Sherlock would have some ulterior motive behind the visit, but he wasn't sure he could seriously snoop around the house of one of his idols. And possibly his biggest crush. He sighed, torn between obeying Sherlock and respecting Lestrade's privacy. He supposed he wouldn't even know if he could do Sherlock's bidding until he reached the place.

"Sorry, mate," Lestrade finally stood in front of him, hair now even more messy, and shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. "Ready to go, if you are."

"Yes, sure," John stood and smiled.

 

Outside the door a small group of women were huddled, all of them gasping and whispering as Lestrade stepped out onto the pavement. He smiled at them, and one was pushed forward by the others, clutching a CD and a pen.

"Lestrade? Um, I was, please could you sign my album? I mean, I'm a fan and..."

"Of course," Lestrade took the plastic case and the pen and looked at her. "Want it made out to you? Or just an autograph?"

"Oh, to Jo, please, thank you, it's ever so kind."

Lestrade scrawled across the CD, ending with large kisses after his name.

By the time he'd finished the rest of the women had gathered around, and John watched as he smiled and chatted to them whilst signing various posters, albums and DVDs. Despite all being in their thirties at least they seemed reduced to giggling, blushing teenagers, and John couldn't blame them. A couple of them smiled at him, obviously wondering who he was. He smiled politely back, secretly jealous of their hoards of signed goods.

Then one of them hesitantly produced her mobile phone. "Would you mind if I had my photograph taken with you?" she asked, nervously.

"Course not. John, would you mind?" Lestrade took the phone and handed it to John, who then found himself taking pictures of each woman, Lestrade wrapping an arm around their shoulders, smiling widely.

They finally thanked both Lestrade and John profusely before making their way up the small alley, glancing back and smiling all the way.

Lestrade finally turned back to John. "Sorry, thanks for that. Now we really can leave."

"That happen a lot?" John asked, wondering just how unprofessional it would seem to ask to have his own picture taken. At least if he got something signed he could say it was for his sister, he supposed.

"Yeah, don't mind it – not when they're proper fans. It's the ones who turn up with a whole file full of stuff they want signed that get me - you know it'll all end up on eBay within the day. I've had words with a few of them. But people like that, genuine fans, it's kind of nice, that they turn up and hang around waiting for ages. Shows they care. Least I can do is scrawl on their stuff."

Lestrade pulled some keys from his pocket and pressed the remote, causing a car down the road to bleep and unlock.

John tried to hide the fact his mouth dropped open in awe of the sleek Aston Martin that stood by the kerb. He reached down and opened the door, then dropped into the leather seat, unable to stop himself from reaching out and touching the dashboard.

"My God, this is beautiful," he breathed.

"It's not a bad runaround," Lestrade answered, gunning the engine with a throaty roar and pulling out of the side street. "So, sorry, I didn't catch your full name, Detective..." he glanced across at John.

"I, er, not detective anything, actually. Um, I...we work with the police, sort of...consultants," he said.

"Not...you're not actual police?"

He could feel Lestrade's gaze burning into him.

"Not...exactly. But, I mean, we're with Scotland Yard, you see. Sort of...unsolved crimes, um...experts in finding clues and links, that sort of thing."

"Right, I see," Lestrade said slowly, not sounding as if he did at all.

"It's hard to explain. But it's totally legitimate, I mean, It was Detective Inspector Dimmock who asked us to look at the case. We do it all the time."

"Right," Lestrade answered, still sounding a bit unsure.

"So, um...a musical?" John asked, deciding a change of subject was definitely in order. "Bit different, isn't it?"

"Pain in the arse," Lestrade answered, weaving in and out of the heavy London traffic. "If anyone had told me...and that's before people started getting themselves killed." He shook his head. “Christ, I didn’t mean that. Sorry.”

John smiled awkwardly. "Um, so, it's all the band's songs, is it? I mean, put together, for the show?"

"Well, few hits, couple of album tracks. Try to keep everyone happy, seem to end up keeping no one even vaguely contented. You know the sort of thing," Lestrade sighed and put his foot down as they got onto the motorway. "Sorry, you don't want to hear about the problems. Yes, musical, due to open in four weeks. All the hits you want, in one place. Broadway here we come, woo fucking hoo," he grinned, but it was a tired effort.

"But if it's anything like the success of some of the others…" John stopped himself, worrying that perhaps it wouldn't be.

"Oh, yeah, if people take to a bunch of pretty twenty year olds covering our stuff, it'll flog a few albums, the soundtrack will do well. Might even get some new fans. Just depends what the critics say, and if the old fans will stomach it."

"If you're not enjoying it…well, why do it?" John twisted slightly in his seat, watching Lestrade's expression, taking in the silvery hair at his temples and the silver earrings he wore, one of which seemed to have a small bullet hanging from it.

"Moolah," Lestrade rubbed his fingers together and smiled.

"But…you, I mean, well, you must be load…fairly well off, surely?" He couldn't even begin to calculate how many years it would take for him to save up for the car they sat in. “Sorry, that’s...I mean, it’s none of my business.”

Lestrade waved a hand. "I am, yeah, but the others…you know what Tommy left to his six ex wives and eleven kids when he died? A bunch of unpaid mortgages, debt the size of a small African nation, a Merc with a dodgy gearbox and a fucking unpaid bill for a Little Chef Olympic Breakfast." He shook his head. "They're fucking lucky he didn't flog his share of the rights to our stuff, or they'd be really shafted. At least through this they still see some cash."

"Wow…but…you guys were…you ruled the world! I heard that you once paid a hotel in Vegas to fill their swimming pool with champagne."

Lestrade laughed, and John couldn't help but enjoy the sight, and note that it made him look years younger than when he was frowning or worried, as he had been at the theatre. "Christ, yeah, we did. Those were the days, man," he shook his head. "But you've still got to have a bit of sense. Tommy spent his on getting married to every woman he met, Rick puts half his straight up his nose, which means he's a fucking nightmare to work with, and Freddy lives over in the Canaries and hates coming back here. He hasn't blown all his, but touring's a fucking hard life, and none of us are getting any younger."

John nodded, feeling as if his dream of a rockstar lifestyle was rapidly being taken apart and severely tarnished.


	2. Chapter 2

It didn't take long before Lestrade was pulling off the motorway and weaving through country lanes, finally pulling into a driveway and flicking a button on his keyfob to open the large metal gates. John noticed two security cameras and an intercom system.

"You've got decent security here, then?" he asked. "Is that new? Or have you always - I mean, have you done anything new, since the murders?"

"What? No, same old stuff, have to have a pretty decent set-up," Lestrade pulled forward once the gates were open, and drove up the sweeping drive to the large house. "Been done a few times – well, not here, when I lived in town. Also helps to keep the press out."

He pushed another button and one of the garage doors lifted, to reveal a battered old Land Rover inside - a very far cry from the Aston they sat in. John didn't know why Sherlock wanted a picture of the inside of the garage - garages, he corrected himself, and he wondered if he could find an excuse to have a look around them. There were two more double doors, and he could only imagine what sort of vehicles sat behind them.

 

He followed Lestrade across the gravel, marvelling at the vast expanse of pristine green lawn that surrounded the house.

 

"Come in," Lestrade said, unlocking the large front door. "I'm not due back in town for a few hours, but you're welcome to hang out here, or I can arrange a car to take you back."

"Um, well, I don't want to be a pain, I mean...whatever's easiest, really."

"Stay then, the TV people are sending me a car later, we can share, drop you off wherever you want."

"Right, thanks," John looked around at the large hallway, a few photos framed and on the walls, a couple of large plants in pots.

"You want coffee?" Lestrade asked, as he led the way through the house. "Oh, and hope you like dogs."

"Yes, dogs are fine, and only if you are," John answered, glancing through various doorways and spotting a massive sitting room with a grand piano in it, as well as a room which looked to be stuffed with every iconic piece of rock and roll history he could think of.

"Live on the stuff," Lestrade answered, opening a door and letting two large Dalmatians spill out into the kitchen, immediately heading to John and sniffing him.

"It...so, these um, these murders," he tried to drag his attention away from a gold disc which was propped up on the front of the Welsh Dresser, where most people kept plates, and stop a large dog jumping on him. "Do you have any theories?"

Lestrade turned and leant on the counter, pushing his hand through his hair again. "I don't know. Part of me...God, a big part of me, wants it to be coincidence. They were both young, both enjoyed going out. I know it's terrible of me but I really want them just to be victims of random attacks."

"No, that's understandable," John agreed. "But it would seem unlikely, I suppose, given the number of murders in London, the chances are pretty...slim."

"I know. Christ though, the thought that me picking them out of hundreds might have led to their deaths...honestly, I can't think about it. Makes me feel sick. I mean...they’re...they’re just kids. Just starting out."

"So they just sent their...what, tapes, is it? In to you, and...what happens?"

Lestrade sat down, pushing one large mug of coffee toward John. "Yeah, they send a showreel in, audition tape - although they're not tapes now, it's all on DVD. We sit down and look through them, pick the right voices, faces, dancers, all that. Make a shortlist, then bring them in for auditions."

"We? Who's we?" John asked.

John spent the next half hour learning more about musical theatre than he'd ever dreamt of, and also spent more time looking into Lestrade's dark brown eyes than he meant to. He wanted to pinch himself, it felt so unreal.

“So, sorry, this is probably a stupid question - but do you think there’s a link - I mean another link - between the victims. I mean, apart from your show?”

Lestrade sat staring into his coffee for so long that John was about to ask a further question. Then he looked up. “I don’t think so. I mean...I don’t think they have any other shows in common, or background. I’ve thought about it quite a bit, and nothing...well, I mean, maybe your...Sherlock can see something. But no. Just...all working for me, and...all strangled. Jesus...it...it’s hard, you know? Because whatever...it might not be my fault, but it’s because of me, isn’t it?”

“Strangled? Do you know any more details - sorry, I’m sure Sherlock knows, but...well, he doesn’t always remember to share the details.”

“Not really. They haven’t said what was used. Just...all late at night, all near their homes, after rehearsals, all hit on the back of the head and then strangled.” Lestrade sighed. “I mean, one, you can...but three?”

“It’s not...I mean, I’m sure it’s not because of you. It’s...well, you just can’t look at it like that. You can’t think like that.” John leant forward, willing Lestrade to understand, to forgive himself.

“Shouldn’t, maybe. Definitely can, I assure you,” Lestrade murmured.

John nodded. “Sherlock is - at the risk of jinxing all this - he is amazing. The detail he sees, the...mental agility, I suppose, he has. He finds links and reasons and spots patterns that seem impossible.”

“Then I hope - I seriously hope - he can work it out before there’s another. Because right now, it feels like a race against time. And it’s a race I don’t have the first idea how to run.”

 

Once Lestrade had finished his coffee he stood up and opened one of the large patio doors, allowing the dogs to head off into the huge garden.

"I've just got to play through a couple of things, for tonight," Lestrade said apologetically. "Um...there's TV, or if you want to borrow a computer or something, keep yourself occupied...I dunno," he shrugged.

"Could I...listen?" John asked, feeling as if he would be somehow intruding.

Lestrade actually blushed slightly, he noticed.

"Sure, of course, um, wait here, I'll be right back." Lestrade headed out of the room and John couldn't help but smile. Of all the things working with Sherlock had brought him, this had to be the absolute best.

Lestrade returned with a guitar and a large battered notebook, and sat in the chair at the end of the table, kicking a footrest out from under it, then dug in his pocket, his hand emerging with a plectrum. John couldn't help but grin like a complete idiot as Lestrade strummed the first few chords of one of his well-known hits. He let himself drift away, imagining what it must be like to see the whole band, feel the music vibrate through his body at one of the huge arenas, or in a mad, sweaty loud club. Lestrade wasn't exactly singing, but humming and occasionally uttering snatches of lyrics, especially when he went back and redid some bars, getting them just right.

Lestrade glanced up at John. And smiled himself when he saw the grin on the man's face. "Well you're doing better than the dogs - they howl at me when I practice," he said.

"Huh?" John looked as if he'd been caught doing something naughty, and Lestrade's smile grew bigger. "Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about what it would be like to see you live. I mean The Rox, live, somewhere like...Wembley or..."

"Ah, we won't be touring this year," Lestrade said apologetically. "Not now…well, we don't know what we'll do, without Tommy."

"Of course, yes. So tonight, what is it you're doing?" John asked.

"Chat show. Need to play a piece, have a chat about the musical, then play the show out. Thought I'd do that one at the end, and play 'Demon' in the show." He strummed the first few chords, to remind John.

"That's my sister's favourite...in fact, I've got to text her, tell her I'm here, with you, and you're playing 'Demon' to me. She'll never believe it."

Lestrade smiled, watching as John tapped out a quick message, and playing through the first half of the song.

John picked up his phone a moment later and read the incoming message. "Yeah, she doesn't believe me," he grinned, holding out the phone to Lestrade.

Lestrade put his own hand around John's, to steady it, and read the message 'And John Lennon's playing me Imagine while we sit on a cloud together. What are you on, bro?'

Lestrade laughed. "Send one back, tell her to watch BBC one at nine."

John looked quizzical, but obeyed.

"What's her name?" Lestrade asked.

"Harry - Harriet, but everyone calls her Harry."

"Right," Lestrade nodded. "So you and...Sherlock, you're like some sort of...what, freelance detectives? I never knew the police used people like that - not that I've ever thought about it," he admitted, still playing the guitar, stopping and starting as he got the occasional note wrong.

"Um, that's probably the best way of looking at it, yes. It's Sherlock really - I mean, he was doing it before I knew him. He's got a sort of...gift, although he'd hate me calling it that. It's like, he can see things other people can't. Clues, that sort of thing. And he can read people, tell you your life story after one glance. It is pretty amazing."

"Well, bloody good if he can catch the murdering bastard who’s killing these kids. So what did you do before you met him then?"

"Army…er and doctor," John replied, his train of thought ruined as he watched Lestrade's fingers moves effortlessly over the frets with seemingly no thought at all.

"Army doctor, then?" Lestrade grinned.

John blushed and laughed, "Yes, sorry, that's right."

"You mean...you did bloody years of training to be a doctor and at...what, mid thirties? You've given it up to be a...private eye?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, no, not entirely. I do still work at a clinic, part time. But yeah, a lot of time is taken up with Sherlock. It's…complicated. But I mean, it still uses my skills, you know?"

Lestrade just nodded, looking down and watching his fingers move over the strings, playing slowly, and humming along.

John decided he had to do something about getting Sherlock his pictures, so glanced around. "Any chance I could use your toilet?" he asked.

"Sure, down there, second on the left," Lestrade pointed.

John stood and walked to the hallway, glancing out of the window to see both dogs safely outside on the lawn. He walked down the corridor, then turned, and could just see Lestrade's back, head bent over the guitar. He took a deep breath and stepped into the office, glancing around. A computer sat on the desk, along with a telephone and fax. Along one wall were filing cabinets, and another had a long bench, covered in stacks of paper and books. Higher up were shelves, jammed full of books and folders. On a large planner stuck to the wall were lots of notes and things pinned up - mainly tickets and passes, from what John could tell. There was also an entire wall of CDs, but John knew he didn't have time to look at them. He reached for his phone, still listening to the soft music floating through from the kitchen, but then stopped and shook his head. He turned and slipped along the corridor to the toilet, standing in the stylish room staring at himself in the large mirror. "What are you doing, you idiot," he whispered to himself.

He used the toilet, then walked back to the kitchen.

"Look, I may as well just...Sherlock asked me for some pictures of certain things here. Your office, garage and kitchen. I...I'm not sure what for, to be honest, but Sherlock always has good reasons. He told me to take them without letting you know but...well, I don't want to. But if I could take some then...it'd be very kind of you."

Lestrade looked totally confused. "Photos? But...I mean, this place has got nothing to do with the case. None of the cast have ever been here."

"Like I said, I've no idea. But he wouldn't have asked if it wasn't important."

Lestrade slowly put down the guitar. "Well you can...I mean, Christ, I don't mind, unless they end up in the press. Those bastards will literally do anything for shit like that. Or on the internet – even fucking worse."

John rubbed his forehead. He wished he could make an absolute cast-iron promise to Lestrade, but where Sherlock was concerned, promises were futile gestures.

"I can give you my word that I won't give them to the press. Sherlock...well, I really can't believe that he would. But obviously, I can't promise for him. I can just tell you I would do my utmost not to let that happen."

"It...and he really has to have these? I just don't see what relevance it could possibly have."

"Like I said, he wouldn't have asked if it hadn't been important," John shrugged apologetically.

Lestrade sighed. "Go on then," he waved a hand at the kitchen. "Knock yourself out."

John felt extremely guilty, but took a few snaps of each room, making sure to catch everything in the room by using a couple of different angles. He was aware of Lestrade leaning in each doorway, watching him closely. When they walked out to the garages he gaped slightly at the yellow Lamborghini Miura, battered old Land Rover and the two motorbikes that sat inside the first, and then grinned at the two large quad bikes, mud splattered and dirty, in the next one, along with a workshop, full of tools and engine parts and an old sports car which was either being built or taken apart – he wasn't sure which.

After he finished and they walked back into the house he pointed to the room full of memorabilia. "That looks amazing - is that like...your music room?"

Lestrade shrugged, hands still stuffed deep in his pockets. "It's for interviews, mainly. Newspapers, mags, they love all that. And it means I don't have to let people see the rest of the house. They think I just live in a fucking museum." He walked inside, and John followed, his eyes widening at the walls covered almost floor to ceiling in gold and platinum discs. There were also posters, a wall of photographs and a few guitars sitting in stands. He shook his head in awe.

"I feel like I've stepped into another world," he said, grinning.

Lestrade smiled back. "Suppose that's the point. Don't want anyone thinking we live like mere mortals." He turned and headed back to the kitchen, John following in his wake.

"If you don't mind a walk, I've got to take the dogs out," he said over his shoulder.

"No, not at all," John answered, wondering if he'd ever have a better day in his life.

Lestrade leant out of the door and whistled loudly, causing both dogs to bound toward him. He turned and grabbed a couple of leads off a hook, slinging them around his neck, and locked the patio door, then headed for the front, John and the dogs all following him.

 

They walked for about half an hour, Lestrade and John taking it in turns to throw ever more slobbery tennis balls for the dogs to fetch. Lestrade introduced them as Mozzy and Chops, although John couldn't really tell the difference.

"What happens when you go away?" John asked. "Kennels?"

"No, woman in the village has them," Lestrade threw one of the balls again. "I did feel a bit torn when I got them, what with travelling and everything, but they're great. Used to get a bit lonely, stuck in the house on my own. Not like in London, where you never get any real quiet - out here it's silent at night. So yeah, when I'm away she looks after them with her own dogs."

John nodded, glancing back to where he could just see the house through the large hedge. He could imagine it would be a lonely place, being so large as well as isolated. The village was visible along the road from it, but he knew at night the entire area was probably dark and silent.

"So the army, huh? I thought about joining up, when I was a kid," Lestrade said. "Didn't really know what else to do with myself. But then the music took off and…well, the rest is history."

"I was unsure about it at first, but they paid the bills through medical school – there was no other way I could have afforded it."

"Ah, I see, and that's why you're out now? Paid off your debts to them?"

John smiled. "Nope, got shot, pensioned off."

"Shot? Fucking hell!" Lestrade turned to look at John. 

"Yeah, that's pretty much what I thought when it happened," John gave a wry smile.

"But you're okay? I mean – now, you've recovered?" Lestrade's eyes scanned John quickly, as if looking for evidence of injury.

"Still feel it sometimes, but yes, basically." John felt a blush touch his own cheeks at the amount of concern Lestrade was showing.

"Jesus. See, things like that, make me feel like…well, what have I done? Been around the world, half of it I don't even remember…and for what? Hasn't done anyone any good. And then guys like you saving people's lives and getting shot for it."

"Yeah, must be terrible, being adored by millions, changing people's lives through music, doing all your charity work…you clearly haven't made any impact on the world at all," John grinned, more so when Lestrade smiled back.

"Yeah, all right, I'll give you that," Lestrade answered. "Not the same though."

 

It was around six in the evening when the car arrived to pick them up. John carried the large folders of DVDs out, and watched as Lestrade carefully stowed away two guitar cases in the back.

Once they were in the car, heading for London, Lestrade looked across as John. "Where can we drop you?"

"I live on Baker Street," John replied. "But anywhere's fine, just wherever you're going – I'll get the tube."

John could only see Lestrade's smile for a moment, as a passing car lit up his face, but he recognised the tune Lestrade was singing. After the first verse Lestrade stopped, and laughed. "Sorry, you must get that all the time."

"Not really – not in tune, anyway."

"That was supposed to be a guitar solo, you know," Lestrade said, sounding sad. "Beautiful. And the sax got it instead. I mean, makes the song, but still…"

John could see Lestrade's right hand moving, and guessed he was miming the chord sequence.

"Didn't know that," John admitted.

They sat in silence, and John was aware of Lestrade tapping out rhythms to the songs on the radio and humming along to certain ones.

"I was wondering," he finally said. "How should we get in touch with you – I mean, if anything…happens? Can I get you through your agent, or something? Or…maybe you should take my number, you can call me if you want an update?"

Lestrade pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Yeah, give me your number, and take mine. I usually answer this one…well, not if I'm in the studio or anything, but you can leave a message. I'll always get back to you."

John nodded, getting his own phone out and taking down the number Lestrade gave him, feeling as if he were a teenager taking the first steps toward dating, then berating himself for such a stupid thought.


	3. Chapter 3

He stood on the steps of 221, the heavy binders full of DVDs in his arms, and gave a small wave as the car pulled away from the kerb. Then he let himself into the house, feeling as if he'd stepped from a dream back into reality thanks to the smell of chemicals that greeted him on the stairs.

He walked into the sitting room to see Sherlock bending over a bubbling pot of blue liquid.

"Got those audition tapes," he called, putting them down on the coffee table.

"Excellent. And the photographs?" Sherlock said, without looking up.

"And the photographs," John answered, and headed past the experiment to put the kettle on.

 

He sank into the armchair and put his feet up, resting his head back on the cushions and closing his eyes. He could still feel the solid, warm body pressed against his back, if he imagined hard enough, and the hands dragging over his body, from hips to chest. He smiled, and hoped there would be a way for him to spend more time with the man.

"What's that for?"

Sherlock's voice made him jump and spill tea onto his jumper. "What?" he asked irritably.

"The smile. You were thinking, and smiling about it."

"Nothing – music, stuff," John frowned.

Sherlock made a small 'Hmp' noise and flopped onto the sofa, grabbing his laptop and the DVDs.

An hour later John was pretty sure he never wanted to hear anyone sing anything ever again. The show reels were repetitive and generally utterly horrific – each show tune more jarring than the last.

"Going to shower," John announced. "And when I come back, I want to watch the show Lestrade's on."

"Mmm? Yeah," Sherlock waved a hand.

 

As it turned out, John didn't have to push the argument – he presumed Sherlock had also had enough of the questionable talent on the discs. Sherlock spent the first half of the programme pointing out the guest's addictions, habits and secrets, whilst also commenting on the host's inability to construct a sentence correctly.

John wasn't aware that he had leant forward in his chair until Sherlock shot him a knowing look, and even then he couldn't bring himself to care.

"And now, playing a hit single from his last album, it's…Lestrade!" the host shouted, and the audience clapped and cheered.

John smiled as he saw Lestrade on the stage, his shirtsleeves rolled up, hair with a little gel rubbed through it, and a smile on his face. He waited for the applause to die down a little, then leant forward slightly to the microphone.

"This one's going out to Harry, from her brother, John," he said, voice low and gravelly.

John could feel Sherlock's glare as if it were boring into his skin, but he ignored it, transfixed to the television, watching Lestrade play, the easy movements, the way his eyes closed as he sang certain parts, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips – the way those lips almost brushed the microphone as he sang, and the almost-haunting sound of the husky voice and lone guitar. It was far cry from the stadium-filling anthems The Rox were famous for, but somehow suited his voice perfectly.

As the song ended the audience screamed and shouted, and John saw the same expression on Lestrade's face as he had earlier, when he'd asked to stay and listen in the kitchen. A slightly embarrassed smile, as if he didn't quite believe the audience were genuine in their appreciation – and if they were, that he didn't deserve it.

John watched as Lestrade removed the guitar, putting it down in a nearby stand and made his way across the studio to the comfy chairs, where the host was waiting for him. His phone beeped, and he glanced at the screen, unsurprised when it said '1 new message - Harry'. But he ignored it, focussing on the television.

The talk mainly focussed on the musical, veering off to talk about Lestrade's last solo album and The Rox at the end.

"Of course, we really can't finish without remembering Tommy Dillon," the host said. "And his recent – tragic – death. Can I ask what impact that may have on the future of The Rox?"

Lestrade sat silently for a second, then wiped his hand over his mouth. John wanted to reach into the screen and tell the host to shut up - that it was too soon to think about the band when the man’s friend had just died. But he knew it was a question everyone wanted an answer to, so he just glared at the screen - and waited hopefully for the answer.

"Yeah, well…it's…" the close up showed the moisture in Lestrade's eyes, and John felt his heart clench inside his chest. He wanted to protect the man – stop the grief being broadcast to millions. "It's all so recent, y'know? Tommy and I first met when I was twelve. It might sound a bit trite, but we were like brothers. I'm still having a hard time realising that he won't be sitting at the back throwing drumsticks at me when I play something wrong," he gave a smile, visibly pulling himself together. "So, it's a bit early to make any decisions. But obviously, for the commitments we've already made we do have someone who's a very talented guy, who's played with us before. He's got a tough job, but I know he's up to it, and he'll do Tommy proud. And Tommy'll live on through the music, and the fans, I know that he won’t be forgotten."

The host reached out and gripped Lestrade's arm, thanking him. Then explained to the camera that he was going to play another song, whilst Lestrade made his way back across the studio.

John blinked, swallowing down the tears that threatened, and he knew Sherlock's attention was at least half on him, but he stayed focussed on the screen, refusing to be embarrassed.

Lestrade reached the stage and shrugged his shirt off, revealing a sleeveless t-shirt which showed off his muscular arms, both biceps a solid mass of tattoos, bright and colourful. John could hear women in the audience screaming as Lestrade picked up his guitar – a different one, this time, and slung the strap around himself.

The song Lestrade played over the credits was one of The Rox's classic tunes, and the audience went wild, clapping and singing along. The backing band were good enough, and as the credits rolled Lestrade thanked them, between verses. John sat back in his chair and sighed.

"Isn't he just…I mean, he's one of the most talented musicians alive, really. Amazing. And I was in his kitchen…"

"Anyone can become proficient on a musical instrument," Sherlock answered.

John rolled his head on the cushion to look at Sherlock, who had once again picked up his laptop and was now studying something, the glow of the screen highlighting the sulky expression on his face. "Writing great music isn't about that – he writes amazing songs, and the band's been going for…twenty five years. There aren't many bands who've managed that, let alone still be topping the charts."

Sherlock ignored him, so John turned back to his 'phone, pressing to read Harry's message.

'Fucking HELL', it read. John snorted with laughter. Short and to the point, that was Harry. He suspected he'd hear from her again, wanting more detail, at some point. But for now he was content just to know he'd undoubtedly put a smile on her face. He sat and listened a short while to more musical torture as Sherlock continued to play the auditions, then decided to head to bed.

Once there, staring up into the darkness, tunes and lyrics still spinning in his head, he couldn't help but wrap his fist around his cock, trying to imagine what Lestrade would be doing now – arriving home, probably taking a shower – the water cascading over him, darkening the silvery hair, running down over rough stubble and pink lips, then over the strong chest and arms. He imagined himself stepping under the water, pressing kisses against the collarbones and neck.

He muffled the groan that escaped his lips, his hand moving faster. He could imagined those lips teasing the tip of his erection, as they had brushed over the microphone, the tongue slipping out, tasting him, soft and wet. And once he was nearly there, thighs quivering as his muscles tensed, Lestrade could turn him around, slip into him, strong arms holding him, fingers digging into his hip and shoulder, pulling him back onto a thick, hard erection. John clenched the muscles in his arse, imagining being filled, thrust into, and he shuddered as he came, panting loudly into the silent room as his heart beat peaked. He thrust lazily into his slick, wet fist, wringing every last bit of pleasure from his orgasm, then relaxed, muscles heavy, feeling the tickle as cum dripped between his thighs. He cleaned himself, roughly, with his boxers from the day before, and let the relaxation overtake him, drifting to sleep.

 

John jumped awake, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest, trying to work out what had woken him – then the irritating tune of his phone began again. He wondered if he'd somehow left an alarm set as he fumbled for it. Then he saw the name on the screen - 'Lestrade'. His mouth went a bit dry.

He hit the green button. "Hello?" he cursed his voice for sounding so broken and swallowed hard.

"Hi, John?" Lestrade's voice said.

"Yes, yes…what can I, er, do for you?" he asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes and sitting up.

"This…I don't know, this might not be…I didn't know if I should call or not. My house was broken into last night, and…I don't know, maybe it's connected to the murders, or…"

"Your…shit! Um, right, we'll come up, definitely. It might…are you okay? Was anything valuable taken?"

"Just a guitar, nothing else. And I'm fine. Look, I'll send you a car – and…Sherlock, too? Where does he live, I'll get the same car to fetch you both."

"Sherlock, yeah, we live together, it's…the number's two two one, flat b."

There was a pause, a silence, and John worried for a second that the connection had been lost. Then Lestrade's voice was back. "Right, it'll be…ten minutes? Is that okay? Or…longer?"

"No, ten minutes, fine, see you shortly," John smiled, looking forward to seeing Lestrade again.

"Right. And thanks – it's…thanks," Lestrade finished.

John sat still for a second, before looking down at himself and realising he most definitely couldn't go anywhere before a shower – there was no way he could look Lestrade in the face, knowing he was still covered in his own semen from a fantasy wank the night before. He shot out of bed, grabbing a towel and shouting for Sherlock.

Sherlock appeared from the sitting room, looking completely calm and wide awake.

"Lestrade, car, ten minutes," John said, as he headed for the bathroom. "His house got broken into last night!" He slammed the door behind him.

 

He was ready just in time, noticing the car pulling up outside as he finished dressing. As he ran down the stairs Sherlock stepped out in front of him, holding a large bag.

"What…?" John began.

"You clothing, wash bag and laptop. You're going to stay with Lestrade until the murders are solved."

John felt his eyes widen. "To protect him?"

"To watch him," Sherlock answered, deadpan. "I've packed your gun, bottom of the bag."

"Wha…to watch him? But…"

Sherlock just gave him a look, and John shut up, because he was being given the opportunity to spend more time with Lestrade, and he'd be insane to jeopardise it. He took the bag and walked out to the car, wondering what it was that had made Sherlock so suspicious of Lestrade, and wondering if there was a chance he really could be involved. But he wasn't about to discuss it in front of the driver, so sat in silence, watching the landscape rolling by the windows and the city becoming countryside.

 

"We'll walk from here," Sherlock said as the driver pulled into the gateway, the gates blocking his path.

John looked at the cars parked along the verge, and then spotted a gaggle of people near a gap in the hedge, some sporting huge cameras. He climbed from the car, still watching them as Sherlock spoke to the constable at the gate and got them through. He swung his bag over his shoulder and walked up the now-familiar driveway, although today it was covered in parked police cars and a forensics van.

The front door was wide open, and John could see Sherlock already cataloguing details about the house, the windows, the large gardens and anything else he could see.

They stepped inside the door and John could hear Lestrade's voice coming from the kitchen. He steered Sherlock that way and saw Lestrade leaning against the kitchen worktop, one hand wrapped around a hot mug of coffee, the other gesturing as he spoke to a police officer. John couldn't help but notice he was wearing the same clothes as the night before, and looked completely knackered. He felt a tiny spike of something – jealousy, perhaps – inside as he thought about what Lestrade might have been doing in the intervening hours. Probably had someone in London, stayed the night with them, then got back early in the morning to discover the break in, he decided.

Lestrade looked at him, and within seconds years had fallen from his face as he smiled.

"John…and Sherlock. Thanks for coming," he pushed himself away from the counter and walked over, hand outstretched. John took it, Sherlock turned away. "I've no idea if this is related but…well, I just thought…" he shrugged.

Sherlock walked around the room, then down the corridor, looking into each room. John shrugged to Lestrade and they both followed until they ended up in the trashed interview room.

"What was taken?" Sherlock asked.

"Um, just a guitar – that's all," Lestrade answered. "Or, all that I've noticed. Nothing else seems to have gone."

"Mmm. Valuable?"

Lestrade shrugged and ran his free hand through his hair. "Not really – I mean, there's other stuff that's worth more, other guitars, even."

"What was it like?"

"Fender Stratocaster, red body. There's loads of pictures of it, I can dig you one out, if you want?"

Sherlock already had his phone in his hand, and turned it to Lestrade. "Like that?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, that's the one."

John glimpsed the picture and turned to Lestrade. "But…that's your favourite! I mean, your favourite guitar…you…someone stole it?"

Lestrade shook his head. "It wasn't – the two in my studio are my favourites, really, and there's a few others I'd take above that one."

"But…" John started.

Sherlock stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Why did you think it was his favourite?"

John glanced between the two of them. "It was…there was an article, in a magazine. You said…"

"Oh, yeah, but that was just for the sponsorship. They sponsored that tour, so I had to say all that. It's just marketing bullshit."

Sherlock looked interested, then spun to look at the rest of the room. "Clearly all this was done for show. They weren't looking for anything – just making mess for the sake of it. A show. What time did you discover the break in?"

"About…five, maybe? Something like that." Lestrade pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed a few buttons. "I called the police at twelve minutes past."

"Why? Did something wake you? What happened?"

"Wake…no, I was in the studio, I was working. I can't remember why I came out – coffee, or the toilet, or something. And found all this," he gestured. "One of the dogs ran down here, she was…I don't know, acting oddly, so I followed her."

"What did you do then?" Sherlock asked.

"Apart from shit myself and think I was about to be murdered, you mean?" Lestrade laughed.

Sherlock just stared at him.

Lestrade's expression grew serious again. "I called the police – I mean, I had a quick look around – the dogs were with me, so I sort of knew no one was still here. And…then I phoned the police."

"Dogs…why didn't they alert you to the break in? They would have done something – shown some signs of agitation," Sherlock said.

"They were in the studio with me – it's soundproofed, I was playing, I don't suppose they could have heard anything out here, probably – I don't know, they didn't make a sound though."

"And no alarm?"

"Well, there is one, but I only set it at night, or when I'm out. I mean, when I'm asleep. So…time just sort of…I didn't know it was so late, and I hadn't set it. Insurance company'll be livid."

Sherlock made a noise that sounded a lot like disbelief to John.

"There's CCTV – but the police didn't think it would be much help. You can…" Lestrade said to John, gesturing toward the office.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, despite not being the person addressed.

It took a few minutes for Lestrade to pull up the relevant footage and burn it to a DVD for Sherlock, and then Sherlock announced he was done. Lestrade looked at the rapidly depleting fleet of police cars and noticed the forensic officers were packing their kit away. He yawned widely, and John could now understand why he was so tired.

"Yeah, right, I guess…" Lestrade started.

"John will be staying with you from now on," Sherlock announced, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"He…you will?" Lestrade looked at John.

"Um, yes…we thought…"

"For your safety," Sherlock stated, already wandering away. "He's very highly trained in such matters."

"Right," Lestrade smiled at John. "That's…good."

One of the police officers approached and Lestrade turned away to talk to him, and Sherlock grabbed John's arm and led him away slightly.

"Keep a close watch on him," Sherlock said in a low voice.

"What? I will, you think he's in danger?" John couldn't help but glance over his shoulder, only to find Lestrade was looking at him – or, more exactly, at Sherlock's hand on his arm. He shrugged it off quickly.

"No, I think this is a set up. It's all too convenient. No publicity is bad publicity, John," he gave Lestrade a pointed look.

"Sherlock! You can't mean…the CCTV showed someone breaking in."

"CCTV can easily be faked, and I hardly call a dark picture of someone with height and build matching Lestrade's evidence. He could have made that at any time, the system here is open to doctoring."

"I…right, I will," John knew there was no point in arguing. But he didn't want to believe that Lestrade could have anything to do with the murders or the break in.

"Right, I'm returning to Baker Street. Report to me at regular intervals."

"Yes, I will," John called after his rapidly retreating form, and didn't bother worrying about how exactly Sherlock thought he would get back to London.


	4. Chapter 4

He watched the final police officers packing the van, and looked around as Lestrade appeared at his elbow, holding out a mug of coffee.

"Sorry to drag you out of bed early on a weekend," he said.

"Not a problem," John smiled.

Lestrade yawned again and stretched, then rubbed a hand over his face, and John could hear the rasp of stubble against his palm. "Shit. Suppose I should tidy," he said, sounding defeated.

"Want a hand?" John offered.

Lestrade smiled again. "Cheers, yeah."

They began by righting the low bookshelf, then picking up the framed pictures that had been knocked from the wall.

"Shall I fetch a dustpan and brush?" John offered, looking at the broken glass.

"Please – out in the utility room, where the dogs are. You can let them out, too, now everyone's gone, just into the kitchen though, not through here with this glass scattered about."

John headed to find it, opening the door and being pounced on by two lively dogs. He stooped down and stroked them, trying to fend off the licks aimed at his face. "Come on, let me get through," he laughed at them and fought his way into the room, then began opening the cupboard doors, finding various cleaning stuff, Wellingtons and dog food, but the dustpan eluding him.

Finally he found it and headed back to the room, pulling the door of the kitchen closed after himself to prevent the dogs going near the broken glass.

He walked into the room and stopped dead. Lestrade was sprawled in the armchair, a sheaf of photographs in one hand, now resting on his chest, his head lolled back onto the cushion, fast asleep. He smiled, taking in the strong jawline, the stretch of Lestrade's neck, the relaxed pose. He left the room silently, fetching his bag and heading for the kitchen, not wanting to wake him.

 

Once he'd found his laptop and stowed his gun away, safely wrapped in a shirt, he sat at the kitchen table and tried to write up Sherlock's last case. The dogs both flopped down in patches of sunlight by the doors and the house was totally peaceful, just the click of his fingers on the keyboard.

Then a harsh buzz and tinny guitar riff filled the room, causing both dogs and John to jump. He spotted the phone on the counter by the coffee machine and guessed Lestrade must have left it there. The noise stopped, and he stared, wondering what he should do.

After a few minutes it went off again, so John stood and walked over to it, peering at the message on the screen. It just said 'Hello. 1200.' He glanced at his own watch, and saw it had just gone half past eleven. Making his decision he picked up the phone, silenced the alarm and walked out of the room.

Lestrade was still sprawled out, fast asleep, and John faltered in his stride, not knowing what to do. He looked down at the phone in his hand, and knew he had to wake the man. Quite how he'd do that, he wasn't sure – a hand on the knee, because it was closest? But it was also a little…too close to thigh, John thought. Or lean right over and touch his shoulder – but if Lestrade jumped awake, that could be awkward. The one thing, he thought, that he definitely couldn't risk, was Lestrade waking up and finding himself being stared at. John reached out and gently shook Lestrade's knee.

"Lestrade?" he said, softly – and then realised how ridiculous it was, speaking quietly whilst trying to wake someone. "Lestrade?" he said, more loudly, and Lestrade's eyes blinked open.

"John? Shit, was I…" he sat forward, and promptly dropped all the pictures he'd been holding. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't…how long have I been asleep?"

"Only about half an hour. I thought you needed the rest – you looked shattered. But your phone just started going off – an alarm, I thought?" he handed the phone over and watched as Lestrade checked it, changing his grip from one-handed to cradling it in his left and prodding the buttons with his right.

"Shit, shit, I forgot. I've got an interview to do," he looked around the room. "Here, in half an hour. Bollocks. Look, would you mind just giving me a hand – I know it's not your job, but…Oh, and it's Greg, really. You can leave out the whole Lestrade thing here. That's just for show, really."

"Greg," John nodded. "Right, I'll try to remember. And of course I don't mind helping," John smiled and watched as Lestrade began to gather the pictures he'd dropped, struggling to pick up the sheets from the slippery wooden floor, fingertips sliding over them, unable to lift the edges.

"All those," Lestrade gestured to awards which were scattered on the floor. "Anything that's not broken, shove it back on those shelves – everything else just…I dunno, dump it in the sitting room. Just need to get this room half decent, 'cause they'll want pictures."

"No problem," John began gathering various awards and trying to put them on the shelves in a way which didn't look too haphazard.

Lestrade was grabbing the contents of a bookshelf and shoving the books – mainly music, as far as John could tell – back on it. Then Lestrade stood up, and John noticed he was massaging his left hand as he glanced around the room – an occasional grimace on his face.

"Um…Christ, I guess I'll get a bin," he said. "And the vacuum."

"I'll do the glass," John volunteered and headed off to get the dustpan and brush once more.

It took them about twenty minutes to get the place looking reasonably tidy, at which point Lestrade made more coffee and John stood looking at the pile of things he'd moved to hide in the sitting room – Ivor Novello Awards sitting on top of the grand piano, Gold Discs with the glass smashed out of the frames leaning on the coffee table.

"Here," Lestrade passed him the coffee.

"This lot…just this, it must be worth…well, as much as the guitar, surely? Why would anyone just take that one guitar?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Like you said, they probably thought it was my favourite. Probably a fan – or someone stealing to order. The police said it was odd they didn't bring a van or something. They knew they weren't going to get much."

"Right, yeah. Maybe they thought you'd stay in London, or…well, yes, it is a bit odd," John's brow furrowed in thought.

"Yeah. I don't know. Glad you're here though – honestly, when I found it all last night, first thing that went through my head was that someone could be here, and I could end up like those poor kids. Stupid, right? I mean..."

John was about to reply when a shrill noise went off, and Lestrade walked away to the nearest panel for the entry phone. He heard the fuzzy sound of someone speaking through it, and then Lestrade was back.

"Right, gotta shut all these doors now – press are only allowed in the interview room and the kitchen," he said. "They try and get everywhere, otherwise, nosey bastards."

John smiled as Lestrade walked up the corridor, closing the doors, apart from the toilet, kitchen and interview room. He'd never even considered the idea of people trying to snoop around the rest of the house - even though he'd been doing it only the day before.

"Will you be okay - this shouldn't last too long, I hope. You can sit in, or...I don't know, amuse yourself. You're welcome to go anywhere. And if you could keep an eye on the dogs, too..."

"I'll be fine," John assured, and glanced out of the window to see a four by four pulling up outside.

Lestrade gave him a grin and headed to the door, and John swore he could see the exact moment that the man pulled on his 'Rockstar' persona.

He was louder, more flamboyant, kissing the women on the cheeks and shaking hands with the man. He showed them through, offering tea and coffee, and as he walked past John, who was still standing by the bottom of the stairs, he gave an exaggerated eye roll.

Once everyone had a drink the older woman and the man followed Lestrade into the room, whilst the younger woman stayed in the kitchen, sorting through a large bag of equipment. She smiled at John, who smiled back.

"Um, what do you...do, then?" John asked.

"Stylist. For the pictures. When they're done talking," she gestured.

"Ah, I see," John answered.

"You his PA?" the woman asked in return.

"Um, no...I...errr..." He didn't really know how to describe himself. "I'm just doing some...work for him."

"Oh," she looked slightly bored, obviously unimpressed by his vague answer, and returned to sorting through eyeliners.

John sat back down at his laptop and tried to concentrate, but largely failed. After a while the girl gave up on sorting out her bag and began talking to – cooing over, really – the dogs, and John gave up any pretence of working. He wandered toward the interview room, and could hear laughter.

He walked through the door and smiled at Lestrade, who grinned back.

"Just wondered if anyone would like more tea or coffee?" he offered.

"Coffee, thanks," Lestrade said immediately, and John wondered if it would just be easier to put him on a drip.

He glanced at the other two, and clearly noticed the woman staring at John with open interest.

"Oh, this is John, he's a…friend," Lestrade said. "Staying here for a while – we're working together," he winked at John, who nodded too enthusiastically.

"Yes, that's right…so, can I get you anything?"

 

After the interview was over John watched with amusement as Lestrade had his hair carefully arranged, and his shirt removed, so he just wore a black vest and jeans, whilst everyone pondered poses and props. In the end he was positioned on his leather armchair, guitar in hand, sprawling out in front of the wall of Gold discs and the awards that John had arranged earlier. The photo session seemed to go on for far longer than necessary, John thought, with various tiny details being tweaked and shifted, lights being moved and different facial expressions being asked for.

Finally the equipment was packed away, effusive thanks given, and more kisses and handshakes.

Lestrade stood on the doorstep and waved as they departed, then turned to John, who was leaning in the doorway.

"Jesus fucking Christ, I thought they'd never go," Lestrade groaned. "It's two o'clock - I'm fucking starving – you must be too. I can knock something up, if you want?"

"I…um, thanks," John nodded, not really knowing what the etiquette was when it came to your idol trying to feed you. "Um, can I help with anything?"

"No, sit down, Christ, you must think I'm a fucking horrific host. Give me five minutes, I need to wash this muck off," he gestured at the make up on his face.

"Not at all!" John stood by the worktop and fussed the dogs.

Once Lestrade had returned the dogs followed him from the fridge to the cooker and did their best to trip him up whilst he quickly boiled some pasta and threw together some vegetables in a tomato sauce.

"I'll do something proper tonight," Lestrade said, giving John a crooked grin.

"Really…I…I don't, well, I hadn't really thought about it – but you don't have to feed me. God, I feel like I've just…invited myself to stay."

Lestrade waved a hand, eating some raw pepper as he threw the rest into the pot. "You're welcome. Like I said earlier, it's nice to have someone else around, at the moment. Stop me driving myself crazy thinking about it all."

"Yeah," John watched as Lestrade stirred the contents of the pan, his mouth almost watering at the smell.

 

After lunch was done Lestrade leant back and rolled himself a small cigarette, looking evenly back at John.

"I know, Doc," he smiled. "You don't get a golden voice like this without a few though."

John couldn't help but laugh and grabbed both the plates, heading for the sink.

"Dishwasher's the third door along," Lestrade called, tilting his chair back on two legs.

"Kill yourself doing that if you don't kill yourself smoking," John said. "Didn't you learn anything at school?"

Lestrade landed the front legs of the chair with a thud. "Come on, I'll give you a guided tour, now you're living here – should have done earlier." He stood up and picked up John's bag.

"I can…" John reached for it, but Lestrade moved away.

"Downstairs first," he called over his shoulder, dumping the bag at the bottom of the stairs. "Interview room you've seen, sitting room – you're welcome to watch the TV any time you want, there's a few DVDs in the cabinet. Router's in here too, if the signal drops just reset it. Password's on the box, never got around to changing it. You're welcome to play the piano too, if you want – God knows it could do with a bit of love," he grinned.

"You…you've got a Steinway, and you don't play it?" John said, eyes wide. "It…" he ran a hand over the high gloss finish, "It's beautiful. Must have cost a fortune."

Lestrade shrugged. "Housewarming present, from Elton and David. Probably did cost a bit, but Elton says a house ain't a home without a piano."

"Elton…Elton John…gave…shit," John laughed. "That's amazing!"

Lestrade smiled indulgently, and looked away. "Yeah, guess it is."

"Sorry, I didn't mean…sorry. I must come across like a nutter."

"No," Lestrade laughed. "No, you're a…it's refreshing, meeting someone with nothing to do with the whole sodding industry. Someone so…normal!"

John laughed to. "Seriously, if you really knew what I usually spent my time doing, normal would not be the word. I spend my life surrounded by bodies or body parts, chasing after killers and annoying Scotland Yard…well, no, peace making with Scotland Yard, after Sherlock's annoyed them…" he paused as the smile fell from Lestrade's face. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing," Lestrade waved a hand. "Sounds fascinating, really. And brilliant, if you catch the murdering bastards. Guess I'm just thinking about those poor kids. Anyway, come on, plenty to see."

"Bathroom you know," Lestrade gestured. "And this is the studio – small studio - mine. The one out in the garden is the main one, but it's too big for me, can't write out there." He opened the door and John took in the two guitars sitting by a huge desk covered in switches and sliders and two large computer screens. Wires and cables stretched from various microphones and one of the guitars, and two large dog beds were pushed under the desk.

"Wow. What, so you…you write your songs…in here? All the hits, all the…here?"

Lestrade nodded. "That's the guitar I was on about. Nothing else like that in the world. Christ, if that one had been stolen I…I don't know what I'd do. I mean," he picked it up, looking at with an obvious love in his gaze.

“Can I hear it?” John asked, before he could stop himself.

Lestrade grinned, sliding the strap around his neck as if it belonged, hands automatically testing every string, moving over the pickup selector. Then he flicked a switch and the desk lit up. He yanked a pair of headphones from the jack, dug a plectrum out of his pocket and strummed a chord, filling the room with sound. "This guitar, it's like…part of my brain. I think with this one. I know just what to do, to get the notes I want, the sounds. No other guitar in the world is like this one."

John couldn't help but smile as the sound reverberated through him. He watched as Lestrade played, the muscles under the tattoos standing out as he moved, the sound washing over him and feeling as if it got into every nook and cranny of his body and soul.

"That's amazing," he shouted, and got a proper smile that knocked years off Lestrade.

"It's not – it's practice and…ah, I don't know," Lestrade stopped, allowed the last chord to reverberate down to nothing. "Years of trying to get everything in your head out, onto paper or tape or…whatever it's called now. Gigabites? Still, least I can do that, get it down, preserve it, keep it," he shrugged. "Lucky, I guess. Lucky I hear the tunes. Lucky it all fell into place for me."

John nodded slowly, and Lestrade put the guitar back down, flicking the switch.

"Plenty more to see, come on," Lestrade beckoned, and John followed him back out, glancing back at the darkened desk.

Lestrade didn't bother to put shoes on to walk out of the patio doors and down the flagstone path, so John followed his lead. Behind the garages was another building, Lestrade dug in his pocket for a key and opened one door, then another. He gestured inside, and John stepped past him into a large studio, complete with a drum kit and microphones all behind glass from where they stood by a massive desk, covered in computer equipment and gear.

"Oh my…have you, I mean, The Rox recorded things here?"

Lestrade nodded. "A few things, yeah. More recent stuff. Easier when it's your own – no one moaning about times or costs or anything else. And when you’re a bunch of old blokes and all want to smoke and have beer breaks, and then need a piss..." he smiled. “Just easier.”

John shook his head. "I can't believe it's…just can't believe I'm standing here."

Lestrade grinned, then led the way back out, locking up behind him, and opened another door into the same building.

"And in here, gym and hot tub. You're welcome to use either," he gestured to the treadmill, rowing machine, bike, weights and at the far end, by large windows, the hot tub sunken into the floor. "I don't use it as much as I should," he shrugged.

"Seriously? That's…I feel like I'm on holiday, not here to watch you - I mean, you know..." He looked at Lestrade, worried he’d let slip his true purpose.

"Well bloody hell, sounds like you deserve it. And don't worry, I'm a big boy, been taking care of myself from the more fanatical fans for a while now."

"I know, I didn't mean...thank you, though. It's very kind of you. I actually thought you might have someone, you know…"

"A Kevin Costner to my Whitney Houston?" Lestrade laughed. "No. I'm too old and boring for all that. Well, I was. Until now." He led the way back to the house, hurling two dog toys down the garden as he went and watching the black and white blurs chasing after them. John followed, trying not to imagine himself taking a bullet for Lestrade at an awards ceremony.


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade grabbed John's bag from the bottom of the stairs and climbed them, reaching the top and pointing. "Two bedrooms down there, and a bathroom, one in there, one there, and this one's mine." He turned and smiled again. "Which one d'you want?"

John wanted to say 'yours', but he stopped himself and shrugged. "I suppose…one close to you? I mean, just in case?"

Lestrade nodded. "Here – better en suite in this one," he pointed to the room opposite his.

"Thanks," John smiled.

"Just errr...get settled? And make yourself at home. Anything you need, just ask. You want food or drink then help yourself."

John nodded and took his bag, heading into the large room. He glanced around and then back out to Lestrade. "Thank you - it's lovely."

He heard Lestrade heading back down the stairs so took the opportunity to unpack some of his clothes into the large chest of drawers and hide the gun away in the bedside table. The room was neat, but soulless. John wondered if Lestrade ever really went in certain parts of the house. The kitchen and office were lived in. The studio was clearly used. The rest seemed just to exist.

He looked out of the window at the beautiful gardens and wondered if the paparazzi had got bored yet, or if they were still staking out the gap in the fence.

 

When he returned downstairs, having retrieved the book he'd been reading - which Sherlock had very kindly packed - he found Lestrade in his large office, although he was sitting behind the desk playing an acoustic guitar, not doing paperwork.

"Is it okay if I..." he gestured to a spare seat.

"Of course!" Lestrade stopped playing and put the guitar aside, sighing and pulling the computer keyboard a little closer to himself.

"You can keep playing," John smiled. "It's nice."

Lestrade grinned. "I'm supposed to be doing paperwork. Shona, my PA, bans guitars from the office," he glanced at the instrument. "But somehow they always get back in here on her days off."

There was a period of quiet, with the occasional rustle as John turned a page, and the odd click of keys at Lestrade typed. Then a smile crept across John's face as Lestrade started humming out tunes, one foot tapping under the desk. The humming rapidly turned into half-singing, with snatches of lyrics interspersing the tune. He smiled and looked across at Lestrade, who was obviously studying something on the computer, and whose fingers were now also tapping.

Lestrade glanced across at him and stopped, eyes wide. "Shit, was I annoying you? Sorry, spend too much time on my own."

"Not at all," John smiled. "I was just wondering if there's ever a time when you don't have music running through your head."

Lestrade grinned and looked embarrassed again. He gestured to the huge stereo in the corner. "Probably the only way to shut me up is stick on something else. Grab a CD."

John glanced around, but shook his head. "It's fine. Really, it doesn't annoy me."

"Well if you change your mind, stick something on. You don't need to ask."

The silence lasted about ninety seconds, John thought, before Lestrade was singing softly again. And within half an hour the guitar was back on Lestrade's knee and he was playing through tunes, some of which John recognised, most he didn't. Then Lestrade made a frustrated sound and put the instrument down. "Coffee?" he offered John.

"Tea, if you've got it," John answered.

When Lestrade returned and sat back down John noticed he wrapped his hands tightly around the mug and had his head down working through some files. John returned to reading as Lestrade set some music playing on the computer, only tapping out rhythms with his feet now.

 

The rest of the day was taken up with walking the dogs and Lestrade cooking some very tasty Thai curry. John tried to help, but Lestrade kept shooing him away, and asking more about the cases John had worked on with Sherlock, which they'd begun discussing on the walk.

Lestrade was fascinated by the adventures and John enjoyed reliving them to an audience, although he found himself downplaying his own roles in the action, whilst explaining just how amazing Sherlock was.

In the evening John worked on his laptop again and Lestrade spent a few hours playing, although he left the door of the studio open and didn't use his headphones, so John could hear him. John found he spent a lot more time staring into space and listening to the music than writing anything down. Trying to pick out the differences in each version Lestrade played – more echo on some, distortion on another. He found it calming, it was similar to how Sherlock's mind worked, he thought – except you could hear Lestrade's mind moving from idea to idea, then settling one thing and moving on.

 

The next morning John showered before heading down the stairs, where he could hear music playing on the radio. He walked into the kitchen to hear Lestrade singing along to a Dolly Parton song, complete with falsetto voice. He couldn't help but smile widely as he realised he hadn't been spotted, and that Lestrade's attention was entirely on rolling himself a cigarette and singing, and both dogs were eating, happy to ignore the new human on their territory.

He was about to walk forward when he noticed Lestrade drop his head forward, as if in frustration, the singing abruptly stopping. Then Lestrade tried again to roll the thin paper around the tobacco, and John could see he was fumbling it. He felt bad watching, so stepped into the room.

"Morning," he called.

"Hey. Sorry, didn't wake you, did I?" Lestrade asked.

"Not at all. Slept like a log," John reassured, flicking the kettle on and turning to look at Lestrade, who had apparently given up on the cigarette. He debated how to broach the subject, and finally decided to dive straight in. "Have you seen someone, about the trouble you have with your hands?"

Lestrade looked utterly shocked, but recovered quickly. "No point in trying to hide anything from a doctor who's also a detective, huh?" he said. "Yeah, few people. It's nothing, I just get a little achy sometimes."

John walked forward and sat at the end of the table, by Lestrade. "Achy doesn't explain why you couldn't roll that up," he gestured at the half made cigarette. What is it? Osteoarthritis? Tendonitis? Something else?"

Lestrade looked at him in silence, as if assessing him. "Right first time," he said. "Osteoarthritis." He held his hands out in front of himself, looking at them, as if they had betrayed him.

"That must be very hard for you," John said, sympathetically. "What treatment are you having?"

"Nothing, really. Bunch of quacks in town have tried to flog me everything from bee stings to drugs that must be made out of fucking diamonds, the amount they want for them, none of it did as well as a bit of weed," he gestured to the cigarette. "And holding a hot mug of coffee. I mean, I take the odd painkiller, anti-inflammatory, if I have to, for work, but..." he shrugged. "Just an utter bastard that the one time I want a joint I can't fucking make a decent one."

John reached over and deftly finished rolling the joint, holding it out to Lestrade, who took it awkwardly between two fingers.

"First time a doc's ever done that for me," Lestrade said a moment later, as he took a drag on the pungent smoke.

John shrugged. "All the evidence points to cannabis being an effective pain relief method for arthritis, and I hardly think there's any point in lecturing you after the life you've led."

Lestrade smiled for the first time that morning. "Don't suppose so, no."

"May I?" John held out his own hand to Lestrade's free one.

Lestrade nodded, putting his hand in John's. "That's worse," he said, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Fretting hand. Even my wrist goes sometimes."

John nodded, examining the hand, moving some of the joints, apologising when Lestrade winced.

"It is just wear and tear, but it's also irreversible," he said, looking up into Lestrade's dark brown eyes. "Rest will help, but I don't suppose you ever try that?"

Lestrade gave a small smile - a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I've tried. But no, didn't really work out."

"And how long do you think you play for, on an average day?" John asked.

"I don't know...a few hours. Depends if I’ve got a gig, or writing an album. More like four or five at the moment."

John raised his eyebrows, but nodded. "I can't say I'm surprised then. But there are loads of things you can do to ease the symptoms. Do you treat it after you've played?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I try to stretch first, now. Mate of mine sorted me out with some exercises. I know it sounds stupid, but I'd never thought of it. I've always just picked it up and started playing."

"Well you should ice the joints afterward, too," John said.

"I do try and have a cold beer," Lestrade grinned. "And I noticed it helped, holding the bottle."

John nodded. "It's a sneaky disease, but it really isn't something you just have to live with. Just because there's no cure doesn't have to mean you can only suffer it."

Lestrade nodded. "Cheers, Doc."

"But for now," John trapped the hand he held between both of his, warming it. "I can get you moving for today." He began to massage the joints.

 

"Trying to prep for it," Lestrade suddenly said, after a few minutes of silence. "I mean, if I stop being able to play. Makes me feel fucking old, but...I've retuned a couple of guitars so I can use them with a slide instead. And started trying to use finger picks, but I just keep forgetting."

John nodded. "Obviously anything you can do now will help. But there's no guarantee the day will come when you can't play. It affects everyone in a different way. But the better care you take now, the slower the decline."

"Yeah," Lestrade sighed. "I'm with Pete. Hope I die before I get old," he gave John another little smile.

"Well you won't be old for a long time yet," John replied. "Give me a second." He quickly made himself tea and grabbed the bottle of olive oil from the counter, sloshing a little into the palm of his hand, then returning to Lestrade. "This'll be better," he smiled and continued the massage.

Lestrade stretched out slightly. "So you'll come 'round and do this every morning, then?" he asked, grinning.

John thought it would be a bit creepy to jump at the chance. He slid the pads of his fingers over Lestrade's strong hands, feeling all the calluses from years of playing. The doctor in him noted the swelling and slight deformities in some joints, and he glanced up at Lestrade's face whenever he felt a wince, to gauge the pain. After he'd looked up a few times he realised that Lestrade's gaze never left his own face, and he felt the hint of a blush touch his cheeks. He couldn't read the dark brown eyes at all, and it unnerved him.

 

Once the massage was finished Lestrade experimentally moved his fingers, nodding when he managed to make a fist first try. "You must have healing hands," he said to John.

"Had a good tutor at medical school," John answered. "What are we doing today?"

"First I'm going to make us breakfast," Lestrade said, standing and heading to the sink to wash his oily hands. "And in a bit I have to go to town and watch the next few acts of the show. See how they’re working out on the stage. That's about it, really. Anything you want to do?"

John shook his head, watching as Lestrade delved into the fridge.

"Happy to go where you go - that's my job." He stood to wash his own hands and took in the array of berries Lestrade had pulled from the fridge and was now washing. "What are you making?"

"Pancakes. Is that okay? And don't get all doctory on me, they're an occasional treat, not a daily occurrence," he grinned.

"Wasn't about to get 'doctory' on you," John smiled back. "Was going to say that sounds delicious."

"Good," Lestrade nodded. "Hangover from spending time in the states. When I'm there I crave a full English, soon as I'm back here I want pancakes."

It wasn't long before John was presented with a steaming plate of fluffy pancakes, embedded with an array of fresh berries, the brightly coloured juices bleeding into the batter, adding splashes of colour.

"Looks divine," he said, tucking in. "Wow, you'll have to give me the recipe," he said around the mouthful of food.

Lestrade smiled and sat opposite him.

 

Once they had finished and John wondered how he was going to manage not falling asleep again immediately, Lestrade cleared the plates and began to ready himself for the day, gathering up large binders of work and music and loading the car.

John sat in the third row of seats at the theatre, one seat away from Lestrade, and watched as the dancers flung themselves around the stage. He couldn't pretend that he had a passion for musical theatre, but he enjoyed hearing the rearranged songs, and it took him back to he and Harry eagerly awaiting the top forty to play on the radio, fingers hovering over the 'record' button on their cassette player, trying to catch all the songs they could. He smiled at the memory and glanced at Lestrade, still not quite believing that he was really there, and not in some bizarre dream.

Once the acts of the day had been gone through from start to finish Lestrade stood and stretched, then headed for the stage, and John guessed that the next thing on the agenda was more tweaks, changes and rearrangements.

He waited for Lestrade to stop talking to the director for a moment and touched him on the arm. "I just need to pop back to Baker Street and do a few other things, if you're happy for me to go?"

Lestrade nodded. "Sure. Take the car if you want," Lestrade held out the key.

John stared. "No...no, I can't. Really, the Tube's fine," he looked at the key to the Aston again, dangling temptingly in front of him. "I...er, no..."

Lestrade shrugged and put the key back in his pocket. "It's there if you want it."

John left the theatre, wondering what it would have been like to drive the powerful vehicle, to slide through the streets in a car which made heads turn. He smiled a little, but as he walked past the sleek gunmetal grey car he knew he'd done the right thing. The fear he would have had of having an accident would have been too much to bear.

 

Lestrade finally finished his assessment of the acts he'd seen and sat back in the stalls, watching. He glanced around as John returned and raised an eyebrow at the two large shopping bags he carried.

"If there was anything you needed you could have asked," he said.

"Oh, no, don't worry," John replied, slightly cryptically. "I might just grab the car key off you though, get this stowed away."

"Sure," Lestrade handed it over. "Shouldn't be too long before we can get going, Just a few more bits to see."

 

Once they were on the way back to Lestrade's he glanced across at John. "See Sherlock?"

John nodded. "He told me off for leaving you alone."

Lestrade smiled. "I'd've thought he'd be glad to see you'd survived."

"Yeah, you'd think. Anyway, he's made some breakthroughs about the rope used, but there's no clear lead on the suspect. I think he's driving Gregson insane, so it's nice to be out of it, as far as I'm concerned. Those two are like school children when they get going."

"Know the feeling," Lestrade said. "Any idea how hard it is keeping the peace on a bloody tour bus?"

"God, no. How did you survive?"

"Drugs, mainly," Lestrade smiled. "Lots of drugs, some booze and the occasional cathartic fist fight."

 

As they walked in the door of the house the phone was ringing, and Lestrade ran to answer it, leaving John plenty of time to stow away his purchases. Then he headed into the kitchen and appreciated the view of Lestrade leaning against the doorframe to the patio, watching the dogs on the lawn. His t-shirt was just tight enough to let John know exactly what he was missing, well-muscled shoulders clearly defined, and two bands of colour around his biceps where the tattoos just peeked out below his sleeves. John made coffee, but couldn't help overhearing the conversation Lestrade was having.

"No way. Well tell them to fuck off. No, not in those...actually, yes, if you want, direct message from me, fuck off. Well Jesus Christ if they've got that much money to spare tell them to cancel the national debt of some poverty stricken country, not give it to me! I don't give a shit, to be honest, they're not...no, I don't. Do they actually have the first clue what the song's even about? Didn't think so. But even if they did, the answer would still be no. Is that a bribe? I don't care, ask him. Right, so what was it then? Exactly. No. Yeah, sorry you had to be in the middle. Well I know you did, yeah, I know, I know. See you soon, yeah. Take care." Lestrade hung up and stared at the phone before shaking his head slightly and turning back to the kitchen. "Utter fucking wankers," he said.

John just raised an eyebrow.

"Fucking Tory tossers, wanted to use 'Free Life' as a track on one of their broadcasts. Wankers," he shook his head again, as if in amazement.

"It is a good song," John ventured. "Not that you should let them, but I mean...isn't it nice, thinking that people like it and want to use it?"

"Not if they've clearly missed the entire fucking point of the song, no," Lestrade answered. Then rubbed his face with his hand. "Sorry. Yeah, it's nice people still think of us, but...well, I'd rather it wasn't them," he grinned, then accepted the coffee John had made him.

"Point taken," John answered.

 

They spent a lazy afternoon in the garden, enjoying the sunshine. John managed to read about half of his book and Lestrade sat with an acoustic guitar on his knee, frequently breaking up the tunes he was playing to throw another stick or dog toy down the garden. 

"What are you playing?" John finally asked, having not recognised any of the tunes so far.

Lestrade sighed. "Trying to get a new album together."

"Really? Fantastic. So…what, you write it all? Or have you written these with the others, and you're just practicing?"

Lestrade smiled and played a few more notes – a very different style, John noticed, to the usual electric guitar. "Nah, this is all me. Acoustic. Not the group, just a solo album. A bit autobiographical, maybe. I thought it was a bit self indulgent, but the record company are up for it."

John put his book down and listened more closely. "It's very…quiet, your own work" he smiled. "I mean, quite a departure from the stadium-rousing tunes you're known for."

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah. Well…I'm scared if I don't do it soon I won't be able to," he flexed his fingers in emphasis, and John could see he was hurting again – unsurprisingly, as he'd been playing for a few hours, on and off. "So…" he carried on picking out notes, sometimes watching his hands, but more usually gazing out across the countryside.

"I like it," John finally said. "It's nice, really hearing the music, you know? Don't get a lot of that nowadays."

"Well, I will be singing all over it, ruining it," Lestrade grinned. "But yeah, clean sound. Just me and the guitar. Maybe a bit of bass on some of them. Some strings. Something like that."

“Is it a bit...scary? Making such a change?”

“At my time of life?” Lestrade grinned. “Yes. Not as bad as the musical...I don’t know, I’m worried, yeah, but...at the same time, it is different, so...if it doesn’t work, it’s not that important. But the musical, if that tanks...it’s like, fucking the whole band over, isn’t it? We might not make another album. Tommy certainly won’t. So it’s just...ruining it for everyone, isn’t it? And all it takes is some arsewipe from a red-top or the bloody Daily Mail to say that some over-the-hill poof has turned out a shitty stage-show just for the money and you’re sunk. Empty theatres mean cancelled runs, means it won’t cross the pond, means The Rox are a bunch of old rockers who won’t go gracefully.”

John grimaced. “But they...the others, they support you, don’t they?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, they’re all for it now, with the hope of a fat paycheque. But you know who’ll get the blame if it does go wrong. And - with every respect to those poor kids - this fucker killing people isn’t exactly helping, is he?”

John looked off into the distance, watching the gentle sway of crops in the wind. He tried to choose his words incredibly carefully. “Is...isn’t he, though? I mean, the old saying, no publicity is bad publicity?”

Lestrade blew out a long breath. “I don’t...I don’t want to believe that. I don’t want to do well because of that. But...God, it’s crossed my mind, you know, that this could be some fan. Some sort of nutter thinks he’s doing us a favour? Either by that, getting publicity, or by...saving the music, you know, rock fans aren’t known for their love of musicals. So maybe...” He shook his head.


	6. Chapter 6

At dinner time John insisted on cooking, and as he moved around the kitchen preparing food he also filled a bowl with ice and water and put it in front of Lestrade.

"Hands," he pointed to the bowl.

"Yes Doctor, Sir," Lestrade threw a sloppy salute, but did put his hands into the water. He hissed as the cold crept into his fingers, but seemed to heed John's warning look and kept them submerged.

"You should do that every time you play," John called over his shoulder. "It'll do you good."

"Can't promise…" he trailed off at John's stern look. "But whenever I'm here, or I can, I will. Deal?"

"Deal," John smiled, enjoying cooking in a kitchen where everything was edible, clean and there was no chance of a rogue body part sneaking into the food, or poison in the salt cellar. He ran another bowl of warm water and put it down next to the first. "Alternate," he said, simply. "About every two minutes."

Lestrade grinned and complied, John glancing over every now and again to check.

He still failed to stop Lestrade picking a guitar straight back up again after dinner though, and playing for another few hours, this time with pen and a book, tattered and worn and obviously well-used, making notes and singing odd snatches of tunes.

 

The next morning he awoke early and stood in the en suite, shaving. He heard Lestrade moving around, and smiled, quickly washing and dressing and heading downstairs.

"Right," he said. "Got something else for you here," he gestured to the worktop, where he'd set up a large heating pot the night before.

"I saw," Lestrade answered, sounding wary. "Don't tell me that's breakfast - looks disgusting."

"Have you smelt it?" John asked.

Lestrade shook his head.

"Well if you had you'd know it wasn't breakfast," he smiled. "Come over here," he beckoned.

Lestrade put down the paper he was reading and walked over to him.

"How are your hands this morning?" John asked.

Lestrade flexed his fingers, not quite able to make a full fist. "Not bad considering how much time I played yesterday. That trick with the hot and cold worked."

"Then this should be even better," John smiled. "Dip your hands in here," he lifted the lid and dipped his own finger into the liquid in the pot. "Wait until it's lost the shine and set, then dip again - need to do that between five and ten times."

Lestrade looked at him, eyebrows raised. "What is it, first. Then I'll consider it."

"Wax. And don't move your hands once you've dipped, right?"

Lestrade looked slightly wary, but did as he was ordered, watching as each layer cooled and hardened before plunging his hands back into the mix.

"Feels nice," he admitted. "And what, it's going to help the joints?"

John nodded. "Yeah, the heat will help you get moving in the morning, and ease up your fingers. Obviously, if you're here alone you'll need to do one hand at a time. The wax won't lose the heat for about twenty to thirty minutes, it's an excellent way to look after yourself."

Lestrade held up his hands, now both encased in hardened wax. "What if I need the toilet?" he asked, grinning.

"Cross your legs," John smiled back. "Now," he gently wrapped each hand in a length of cling film, then gestured to the table where he had laid out two towels. "Put your hands on those."

Lestrade obeyed and John wrapped the towels gently over his hands.

"That'll help keep the warmth in for even longer," he explained. "It'll all do you good. How does it feel?"

"Strange," Lestrade admitted. "But good, really...well, warm," he smiled. "Where did you learn this trick then?"

"One of the surgeons who taught me had bad arthritis. He'd had to give up surgery because of it, and take up teaching instead. He swore by it."

Lestrade nodded. "Well, tell me what I owe you for the kit," he nodded to the pot. "And once you've freed me I'll settle up."

John grinned. "Consider it a gift. For all the years I've enjoyed the music."

Lestrade shook his head. "No way, seriously, let me pay. Christ, it's the least I can do, after you've helped me more than every Harley Street quack I've seen."

John just waved a hand in dismissal, turning to make himself a cup of tea.

 

Lestrade was leaning back in the chair, relaxing, when suddenly he jumped.

"Ah shit," he said, looking from his wrapped hands to his jeans pocket.

"What's up?" John asked.

"Phone...could you..." Lestrade stood up. "In my right pocket, could you..."

John glanced down to see the squarish shape. "Uh...sure, yes, of course," he slid his hand into the warmth of the fabric and retrieved the vibrating mobile phone.

"Who is it?" Lestrade asked.

"Says 'Freddy'," John answered.

"Can you answer it? Stick it on speakerphone...um, there must be a..." he stepped closer to John, leaning over, looking at the screen.

John quickly figured out which symbol to press and held the phone up.

"Fred," Lestrade said, smiling. "How are you?"

"Greg, good, thanks. How's tricks there?"

"Yeah, not bad mate. What can I do for you?" Lestrade sat down, and John put the phone in front of him, unsure as to whether he should stay or make himself scarce and give Lestrade some privacy.

"Where are you, Greg? Not talking to me from the fucking toilet are you? Sounds odd. Maybe it's a bad line."

"No, got you on speakerphone, mate. There's a Doc here, helping me out with my hands. Can't hold the phone."

"Oh yeah, heard 'em all now," Freddy laughed. "You old tart, what is it, manicure? Having your hair done too?"

"Get fucked," Lestrade said good naturedly. "John, say hello to Freddy. Tell him you're legit."

"Errr," John hesitated. "Um, hi. I am really a doctor. And Greg really can't use his hands right now," he verified.

"Well Christ, Doc, you've taken on a project there. The old man's falling apart, you know. He's like one of them old houses you take on - start on the simple stuff, end up having to re-dig the foundations."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Enough of the old – you're only two years younger! Anyway, when are you coming over?"

"Well I'll be over for the gig, then back on the Twenty-second. Show opens on the twenty-fourth, doesn't it? Booked into the Dorchester. Bringing Viv and the girls, too."

"You are? Brilliant. You know you're welcome to stay here, though. I mean, if you want." Lestrade said.

"No mate, not with the girls. Besides, they just want to hit the London shops with my credit cards. But we could come up for a day, something like that? Unless you'll be flat out?"

"Fantastic, yeah, you're welcome. Twenty third - will you join us for the premiere?"

"Sure thing, mate. Like what I've seen so far. Press have been buzzing around, too. I put them onto your lot, mainly."

"You're a fucking star, Fred. But don’t be afraid to say it’ll be great. You weren’t ever shy before."

Freddy laughed. "Maybe I will. If you promise you’re not making a liar out of me. How's the other business going? Caught anyone yet?"

Lestrade glanced at John, then sighed. "No, mate."

"But it's still on schedule? They haven't called it off until it's sorted out?"

"No, refused. Backers say it's been too big an investment, too close to opening. I don't…I don't know what else to do. We've given them all info and alarms and everything, but…well, there's good people working on the case," he gave John a small smile. "I'm sure it'll be sorted out soon."

"Good. Well speak to you soon, and give us a call if you need anything."

"Cheers Freddy. Love to Viv and the girls."

"You too, Greg. I’ll let you get back to playing doctors and nurses then."

“Bastard,” Lestrade called as Freddy cut the call off.

John leant forward and pressed a button on the phone to leave the call screen. He couldn't help but let his eyes be drawn to Lestrade's tattoos, now he was so close, and he realised he recognised some of them.

"Hey, these are…" he touched the pad of his finger to Lestrade's skin.

"Album covers," Lestrade answered. "All of our album covers, or bits of them, anyway. Apart from the middle of that one – that's The Eagles. And on my back, Cream's debut album. That's how it started. Then the arms. Sort of running out space, now."

John picked out various shapes and symbols, some of the lettering, trying to remember which albums he'd owned. "They're beautiful," he said.

Lestrade looked down his own arm, then shrugged. "Had a few of them re-coloured a while back. And the one on my back re-done, just to crisp up the edges, take out the fuzz. It's been there for nearly thirty years."

John nodded, finally dragging his attention away from Lestrade's bicep. "Yeah, saw a lot of guys in the army with old tatts, some of them were terrible – but these are very fine, very skilful."

Lestrade nodded and smiled. "Like I say, they've had a bit of a tidy. But yeah, I'm pretty precious about who gets to do them – there's a great guy in town who did them this time."

 

John left Lestrade's hands under the wrapping for a few more minutes, then slid his hand under the towel and checked how warm they were.

"Right, I can free you again, if you want – seems to have lost most of the heat."

Lestrade nodded. "Great – I'm fucking starving. Next time remind me to eat before letting you attack me."

John grinned. "Come on, back to the pot. We can recycle all this."

He removed the towel and clingwrap and slid the tips of his fingers under the edges of the wax on Lestrade's wrists. He managed to crack and peel the wax away, throwing the chunks back into the pot.

"This is on a timer," John pointed. "Just set it each day for the next, so you don't have to wait for it to melt down. It's perfectly safe, won't ever get too hot."

"Okay," Lestrade nodded, wondering if there was anything John hadn't thought of.

"So, how does that feel?" John asked, freeing the last parts of Lestrade's hands.

Lestrade flexed his fingers and nodded. "Brilliant. It's so simple...yeah, feels great."

He leant forward and wrapped his arms around John, hugging him. Then John felt soft warm lips on his, scratchy stubble brushing against his chin, he closed his eyes, tried to move his trapped arms to return the hug. But suddenly it felt as he'd stepped into a vacuum. The warmth and solidity of Lestrade's body was gone, and John was left feeling as if all the air had been pulled from his lungs, leaving him gasping. His eyes snapped open.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Lestrade was leaning back against the work surface, head back, eyes closed. "I...I didn't mean to...I know you're...just, forget I did that, forget...I'm sorry.. I'm really not that sort of guy."

John just stared, wondering if he'd imagined the kiss, and trying to work out what Lestrade was saying.

"I...it's not, it's...what?" he finally asked.

"Look, I know you and Sherlock are...I'm not the sort of bloke who'd try and...I'm sorry, it was...stupid, stupid of me."

John moved, stepping in front of him. "I'm not the sort of bloke who'd try it either," he said calmly, and reached up slightly, pressing his lips against Lestrade's, fingers gripping Lestrade's t-shirt. "There's no 'me and Sherlock', we're flatmates and colleagues, nothing more," he said when he broke the kiss.

They stood pressed together, so close they were sharing breaths, and there was a long pause, but then Lestrade's hands traced up John's stomach, resting on his sides. "Really?" he said softly.

John nodded. "Really." He leant into another kiss. Lestrade's strong arms slid around him, and when their lips parted again Lestrade rested his forehead against John's.

"I...I'm sorry, I thought you and Sherlock, especially when you said you lived together. And I still..."

John rested his hand on Lestrade's chest, fingers gently stroking small patterns. "We're friends, we work together. We met through a mutual friend - we both needed a flat, and neither of us had the money for central London. I don't think Sherlock's even interested in sex. I imagine he'd find any relationship a massive distraction from all the really important stuff in life," he looked up into Lestrade's dark brown eyes.

"Really important like..?"

"Murders, crimes," John smiled. "He's certainly never shown any interest in pursuing anyone, and he's had a few offers."

Lestrade grinned, forehead still resting on John's. "I've been...jealous of the two of you," he admitted. "And now you tell me there's nothing going on. You seemed so close, like...you know when you know someone so well they don't even have to speak, but you still know what they would have said?"

"Well that's just Sherlock," John said. "He knows more about you than you know about yourself, within a few minutes of meeting you. And I do like him - as a friend."

Lestrade shifted his hands to clasp them in the small of John's back, causing their bodies to fit more tightly together. "Thought you had a nice body that morning in the theatre," he admitted. "When I held you."

John felt his eyes open wide. "You...why? I mean, there's nothing..."

"Yes there is, plenty," Lestrade grinned and bent his head slightly for another kiss, this time his lips slightly open, dropping soft, gentle kisses on John's mouth.

John decided he needed to get his hands on more than soft cotton and found the hem of Lestrade's t-shirt, sliding his fingers under it across smooth warm skin, finding the dip of Lestrade's spine and gently stroking his fingers up and down it.

Lestrade glanced sideways to see two dogs sitting staring at them. "We're making the girls jealous," he said to John.

John laughed. "If anyone finds out about this I think there'll be a lot of girls who are very jealous."

Lestrade just grinned. "It's been a while since I...was with anyone," he said.

"Me too," John answered, hoping to belay any fears Lestrade was having. "But it's like riding a bike, so they say."

"Think if it's anything like riding a bike you've been doing it wrong," Lestrade grinned, and shied away when John used his free hand to give him a gentle thump on the arm.

Lestrade's stomach decided to remind everyone of the lack of breakfast and gurgled loudly, making John smiled again. "Ah, you did mention something about starving," he said, reluctantly breaking the hold, but allowing Lestrade to grab him by a belt loop and drag him back for one more kiss before he headed to the bread bin.

He was well aware of Lestrade watching him as he moved around the kitchen, and at one point turned and stared back. "What?" he asked.

"Just...can't believe it. That you...y'know. "

"You can't...can I remind you that my sister had posters of you up on her bedroom walls? How do you think I feel?"

"Bloody hell," Lestrade said. "That makes me feel old."

"I think you've improved with age, if it's any consolation," John smiled.

"Maybe I should meet your sister," Lestrade grinned. "Check I've chosen the right Watson."

The dishcloth flew at his face with alarming accuracy.

 

They sat at the table, buttering hot toast and Lestrade feeding a tiny bit of crust to each dog. As they ate Lestrade reached out and put his hand over John's.

"I hope it's not too rude to ask, but...I mean, I've seen the press speculation about your sexuality," John started, then paused, unsure of what to say.

"They make it all up. I've never told anyone," Lestrade answered. "They just spot me at parties with various people and make up stories to go with the pictures."

"Right." John nodded.

Lestrade shrugged. "I'm bisexual, always have been. Don't think the shitty gossip mags like it, because they like everyone to fit in nice neat boxes. They get bored if there's no angle on the story, and I've never given them one. I've been happy with women, happy with men, never dated any other celebs, never done anything to draw any attention."

"Yeah, I suppose if you don't ever deny or confirm anything they just lose interest."

Lestrade smiled. "You'd think so. But they still seem intent on writing the articles. I suppose someone reads them, a few might even believe them. But like I said, I'm lucky enough to be too old and boring now to get much attention."


	7. Chapter 7

During the day John found himself glancing across at Lestrade a lot, wanting to pinch himself, but being terrified it really could be a dream. It was undoubtable that he was attractive - and John hadn't been lying when he said he thought that Lestrade had improved with age. But a lot of the attraction was that Lestrade seemed so comfortable in his own skin. The only hint of awkwardness came when he had to take praise. He was like the opposite of Sherlock - instead of revelling in it, he almost shrank back, as if he wanted to tell everyone that he wasn't as good as they thought. John wondered how you be like that, after almost thirty years of topping the charts and being amongst the most adored people in the world, how could you still feel as if you were lacking?

He remembered his excitement at first seeing Lestrade in the theatre, and having the slight fear that the man would turn out to be overbearing or aloof, or perhaps horribly self-centred and cocksure.

Lestrade dragged him from his thoughts by groaning loudly and stretching, then rubbing his eyes as he stood and moved away from his computer. "Another day’s worth of emails answered," he grinned. "Lunch and dogs...or dogs and lunch," he asked. "Your choice."

"Dogs then lunch," John replied. "Work up a bit more appetite that way."

Lestrade nodded and kissed John on the lips, smiling.

 

They walked out across the fields, and once they'd gone a certain way from the main roads Lestrade took John's hand in his, swinging their arms lazily, the sun warming their skin as they walked along the edges of fields. The dogs charged around, crashing through hedges and into ditches as they explored, bringing back sticks for the two men to throw. As they reached the small spinney Lestrade climbed and sat on a gate, looking over the top of the crops, eyes half closed against the bright sun.

John joined him, enjoying the outdoors, the space, feeling a long way from London and the never-ending traffic and people. "Nice out here," he commented.

Lestrade nodded. "I understand why Freddy likes the sunshine, the pool, the beaches, all that, but I wouldn't want to move abroad, not full time."

"I would have thought you'd have villas and islands all over the place," John smiled. "Isn't that the norm?"

Lestrade laughed. "Yeah, well, I've got one or two places, but not villas. Odd little out-of-the-way houses, where people leave you alone and a long way from tourists."

"Sounds nice," John answered.

"Maybe you'll find out," Lestrade looked across at him. "If you put up with me for long enough."

John looked into Lestrade's eyes, and he could see that there was genuine concern there. "Well, you're easy enough to cope with so far," he said, nudging Lestrade's shoulder with his own, making the gate wobble beneath them.

 

That night John stretched and yawned as Lestrade packed away the guitar he'd been playing for the previous few hours, and climbed the stairs wearily as Lestrade put the dogs in their room and checked the doors and windows. He heard Lestrade's feet scuffing on the steps and went to the door of his room, suddenly feeling stupidly nervous. He leant in the doorway and smiled as Lestrade yawned widely.

"Um...goodnight," he said, unsure of himself.

Lestrade paused, hand on the door of his own room, then nodded. "Night."

John turned, and knew that Lestrade hadn't moved. He glanced back, smiling, then pushed the door partly closed behind him. He sat on the bed, listening as the pipes clicked, and water ran for a while in Lestrade's en suite, then the house fell into silence. He lay back, and stared up at the ceiling, feeling like an awkward schoolboy, unsure of what to do with himself. He supposed that taking things slowly was for the best, but he also found it hard to imagine Lestrade, so close, but still out of reach, when all he wanted was to run his hands over smooth warm skin, to kiss soft lips, feel the drag of rough stubble against his face, explore every inch of him. He sighed, his hand sliding down his stomach and resting over his cock, already half-hard purely owing to his thoughts. But it felt wrong, lying in the man's house, wanking to fantasies of him. He tugged his hand out from under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and tucked both of them behind his head instead, staring up at the ceiling.

His eyes were beginning to drift closed when there was a slight noise outside. His body tensed, on high alert.

Then there was a gentle knock at his door. "John?" Barely more than a hoarse whisper.

"Greg? Are you okay?" he was pulling the duvet back and had his legs out of the bed by the time the door swung open.

Lestrade stood, silhouetted by the light from his own bedroom, making his hair look a touch more silvered.

"I, um," a hand pushed through the hair, making it stand in soft spikes. "This is stupid, right? You in here, me in my room...After what happened."

John couldn't help but smile, and a few swift steps brought him close to Lestrade, taking in the dark bands of the tattoos, at odds with the pale skin and dusting of hair on his chest. He slid his fingers inside the waistband of the soft jeans – obviously tugged back on to preserve some modesty – and pulled Lestrade into a soft kiss. Lestrade's arms wrapped around him, and a gentle moan escaped his mouth.

Lestrade took a step backward, leading John, not breaking the kiss. John could feel his erection growing again, pushing on the soft cotton of his trousers, bumping against the tough denim of Lestrade's jeans. He moved his hands, sliding them up over the soft hair of Lestrade's chest, then down again to settle on his waist, pulling their bodies closer together, making a slight noise as his cock finally felt a little friction when he pressed against Lestrade.

Lestrade seemed to get the message, and moved to palm John's buttocks, pulling his hips tighter against himself, so John could feel the answering bulge of Lestrade's groin.

John barely registered that they'd reached Lestrade's bedroom, but suddenly the warm hands were sliding inside his pyjamas, pushing them down over the curve of his bum, forcing him to move his hand and free his erection from the front. He shivered as the rougher fabric brushed against his skin, and he fumbled for the stud on Lestrade's jeans, the moan Lestrade made into his mouth making his cock twitch as he pushed at the trousers.

 

Somehow they managed to step free of the clothing, barely breaking contact, and John glanced at the bed – the cover sprawled across it, where Lestrade had got up only minutes before. The bedside lamp was bright in the darkness, a pool of light, and John suddenly felt self conscious, aware that Lestrade hadn't yet seen the scar on the front of his shoulder – thick, pink scar tissue, bisecting his shoulder. Lestrade did, however, notice the change in him.

"What?" he murmured, lips brushing over John's, fingers dragging delicate, almost ticklish lines down his stomach, stopping just short of his hips and groin.

"Nothing, just…" he reached up and touched the scar. Brown eyes flicked to it, then back to gaze into his blue ones.

Lestrade bent his head and kissed John's collarbone, then up his neck. "Where you were shot?" he said softly, breath tickling John's ear.

John swallowed and nodded, pressing his cheek against Lestrade's, closing his eyes as their stubble dragged, his short, barely there, Lestrade's rough, catching his skin, scratching him. He pressed harder, increasing the friction, sliding until his lips once again met Lestrade's, the slick movement of tongues a sharp contrast.

He could feel Lestrade's hand slide up his back, and then fingertips gently trace over the knotted skin. He tensed again, and Lestrade smiled, breaking the kiss.

"Here," Lestrade said, sinking down onto the mattress, pulling John down with him, half on top of him, resting on his chest. "Least you've got a story – heroism. That'll remind you of your bravery every day for the rest of your life." Calloused fingers slid over his cheek, encouraging him close enough for another kiss.

"All mine…just remind me of my own stupidity," Lestrade continued. "Every day, get reminded what an idiot I've been, and that I'm lucky I didn't kill someone, mostly."

John stared at him, and Lestrade took his hand, gently guiding it. 

He felt the familiar dip of scar tissue on the side of Lestrade's thigh, just above the knee. "Car crash," Lestrade said. "Joy riding, when I was sixteen. One of my friends died, in the seat next to me." He moved John's hand up, encountering another line, this one dotted with the marks from stitches either side. "Falling of a bar, drunk and off my face on something. Pint glass shattered. Would have died if it weren't for my friends having a better clue of what was going on than I did." Then finally his hand was moved so his fingers could find another line, just detectable, around his side, under his rib cage. John moved, glancing down to see the jagged white line, wide in the middle, tapering off at either end. He looked up at Lestrade's face, eyebrow's raised in question, waiting for the story.

"Thought I was God's gift," Lestrade's voice was low and husky. "Saw a guy the week before crowd surfing – lead singer. They loved it, fucking loved it. Thought I could do the same. Near the end of the set, jumped…waiting for those adoring fans to catch me."

"And?" John's own voice was barely more than a whisper.

"He was a lead singer of a famous band. I was a kid from the support act. I jumped in, they threw me back. Took out a barrier on the way down, broke two ribs."

John felt a smile tug the corner of his mouth. "Really?"

Lestrade nodded, eyes glinting in the darkness, and, John thought, a hint of amusement.

"Sorry," John couldn't help but let the smile take over. "That's…kind of sad, really."

"Bruised ego hurt the most," Lestrade answered. "Think I found a cure, though, Doc," he pulled John back down onto him, and John obliged by rolling and straddling Lestrade's hips, adjusting his position so his cock slid against Lestrade's.

"Oh…God," Lestrade reached between them, gripping them both, then twisting his head on his pillow, looking toward the bedside table. "In there, there's…lube," he said, nodding at it.

John shifted his weight, pulling open the drawer and grabbing the bottle.

Lestrade lifted his head and kissed him as he took it, hand still squeezing them together, moving slightly – enough to make John want to thrust, to ask for more.

"Sorry," Lestrade said, between kisses. "No condoms…it's…been a while."

John smiled. "'S okay," he rocked his hips, and heard the snap of the plastic cap of the lube. He pushed himself up, allowing Lestrade's hand to snake out from between them, gather a generous amount of the gel, then slip back, rubbing over them both, covering them in lube. The strong hand then squeezed him, guiding him, holding his cock so he was trapped between Lestrade's palm and his erection. He heard himself make a little gasping noise, and shifted his legs, allowing himself more movement as he thrust into the tight grip. 

The underside of his cock rubbed and slid against the underside of Lestrade's, the feel delicious. Lestrade's free hand gripped his hip, setting a pace, and as John watched his tongue flick out over his lips, pulse beating hard in his neck, his eyes flickered closed and John felt the addition of more slick, warm liquid as Lestrade panted out a few moans, thrusting erratically. He looked down, seeing the semen in long white stripes across Lestrade's stomach.

"Uh, God, fuck…" Lestrade breathed the words, barely carrying on his harsh breaths.

John bit his own lip, feeling the twitch of Lestrade's dick against his own, thrusting harder, letting out a gasp as Lestrade's hand closed in a fist around him, and thirty seconds later he felt the build up inside him peak, the pleasure uncoiling, and he pushed hard, muscles shaking, long thrusts through the slick, tight, hold. He could hear his own panting, and when he opened his eyes Lestrade was watching him with a half-smile and heavy-lidded eyes, cum now splattered as far up as his chest

"You look wonderful," Lestrade said softly, swiping his thumb over the heads of both their cocks, smile increasing as John jumped slightly, his over-sensitive flesh recoiling from the touch.

John smiled, embarrassed, and ducked his head to capture Lestrade's mouth.

Lestrade used his clean, free, hand to stroke up John's back, fingers gentle, almost tickling. Then he smiled. "I'll fetch a cloth. Too old to wake up stuck to the sheets."

John laughed, but carefully rolled off him. As Lestrade stood and walked around the bed John could pick out the scars, light on his tanned skin, and he pushed himself up on his elbows to follow Lestrade's progress around the room, enjoying the view of muscular legs and back.

He watched as Lestrade gave himself a brief clean up at the sink, then returned with a damp flannel and dry towel. Lestrade sat on the edge of the bed and dragged the warm cloth over John's skin, cleaning off his stomach, then gently sliding it around his now-soft cock and balls.

John watched him, and could feel the gentle ministrations make his blood run south again, despite having only just orgasmed. He couldn't help but smile to himself.

"What?" Lestrade asked, his voice husky, and mirroring the smile.

"If you keep doing that I shall be ready for round two," John answered. "Which is something of a miracle, at my age."

Lestrade laughed. "Just don't expect me to keep up with you, 'at your age', cos I've probably got ten years on you."

John sat up, hand sliding around the back of Lestrade's neck, dragging him in for another kiss. "Fetch you a mug of Horlicks, shall I?" he teased.

"Fetch you a clip around the ear," Lestrade responded, dropping the cloth off the edge of the bed and pushing the towel into John's chest hard enough shove him down onto his back, and following him down, looming over him and kissing him roughly, finishing with a small bite of his lower lip.

John laughed again, drying himself just enough and launching the towel off the edge of the bed too.

Lestrade turned off the light and dragged the cover up over them both, catching John around his waist and holding him close, their bodies pressed together.

 

John could feel Lestrade's arm getting heavier, and hear his breathing even out as he fell asleep. He stayed awake a while longer, still unable to believe what was happening to him. He watched as Lestrade's eyelids began to flicker, and wondered what he was dreaming of, as his fingers twitched slightly against John's side - almost tickling enough to make him giggle.

 

When John awoke in the morning he found himself still entangled with Lestrade. His arm wrapped around Lestrade's, one foot caught between ankles. He blinked awake, to find himself caught in a deep brown gaze.

"Morning," Lestrade smiled.

"Mm," John grunted. "How long've you been awake?"

Lestrade gave a tiny shrug. "A while."

"Got nothing better to do than watch me drool in my sleep?" He rubbed his eyes with his free hand.

"Not a thing."

John paused, amused by the small smile tugging at Lestrade's lips. 

"Oh. Right."

Lestrade shifted, trailing his fingers up and down John's side, until John caught his hand and began gently rubbing the joints.

"Might be a bit soon to be playing doctors and nurses in bed," Lestrade mumbled. "On a first date."

"First date, is it? And is this where you usually bring your dates?"

Lestrade grinned and shook his head. "Believe it or not, no."

"I'll believe you. It would do my ego no good to think you were lying."

"Was going to get you some breakfast," Lestrade said. "But I'm pretty useless first thing, so figured you'd work for it if you wanted it," he gently flexed the hand John was working on.

"Breakfast in bed? You're spoiling me," John leant forward for a kiss.

Lestrade removed his first hand from John's grasp and offered the other one. "Think I'm the one being spoiled."

 

Once John had finished easing the joints in his fingers out, Lestrade headed downstairs and returned shortly afterward with a tray of toast, chopped fruit and juice, along with two coffees.

"No newspaper?" John grinned. "Not sure I'll come back if a morning paper isn't included with breakfast."

"Would've had to go down to the gate like this to fetch it." Lestrade replied, gesturing at the jeans he'd pulled on and his naked torso.

"Given those reporters something to photograph, wouldn't it?" John said, sitting cross legged and reaching for the coffee.

Lestrade snorted. "'Ageing rocker forgets to dress'? Yeah, be all over the gossip pages."

"You're not ageing," John answered, opening the jam and spreading it onto the buttered toast.

Lestrade smiled, but didn't reply.

"So, plans for today?" John asked.

"Thought, after we've showered, you might like a quick burn around on the quads? Ever ridden one before? I take it you've got a driving licence?"

John nodded. "Yes to a licence, and yes, I've ridden one before, a while ago though, in the Army."

"It's nothing too extreme. Just chug around the area, give the dogs a nice decent run out so they leave us alone later."

"Oh yes, and why do we need to be dog-free later?" John grinned.

“Oh, you know,” Lestrade gave a small smile, not meeting John’s gaze. "Thought we could chill-out in the hot tub, generally relax. Have to be back in London again tomorrow, busy day, so today is our day."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting.

Once they were up, washed and dressed and Lestrade had dutifully treated his hands, with John's help, he got the two quad bikes out of the garage.

"Right, here's your gear," he said, passing John some gloves and a helmet. "They're not that powerful, but be careful, everything's pretty self-explanatory - accelerate, brake, they're automatic...have a spin around the drive first, get used to it."

Lestrade watched as John made a slightly jerky start, but quickly grew used to the controls, and settled into smoothly driving around. Lestrade locked the house and garage back up, swung his leg over his own machine and led the way out of the road. He drove a short distance, then turned up a rough track, standing up out of the saddle as the wheels bumped over the rutted earth, now baked dry in the sun. The dogs bounded around them, running off and returning, unfazed by the bikes, but wary enough not to get too close.

As Lestrade dismounted to open a gate John called to him over the sound of the engine. "So the farmer doesn't mind, that you ride up here?"

Lestrade grinned. "Hardly, I'm allowed wherever I want on my own estate. And he's a lovely bloke, brilliant tenant."

"Your...you own...how far does your land stretch?"

Lestrade glanced around. "That rise over there," he pointed. "That's all mine, all this, pretty much up to the motorway, um...yeah, it's a fair old chunk."

John nodded, looking around at the crops and small wooded areas in view. He couldn't begin to contemplate what it must be like to own so much space. 

They continued their ride, along tracks and paths, until they came to the edge of a field full of a new young crop. Lestrade switched off the engine and sat, looking out across the gently swaying greenery.

John killed his own engine, and the almost-silence surrounded them.

"It’s beautiful," John said, removing his helmet and resting his arms on it in front of him.

"Yeah. Don't get up here much. Haven't really been on the bike much since my hands started fucking up." Lestrade stood and stretched, at least one joint popping audibly. “Haven’t done much, really. Felt like if I wasn’t playing guitar I was...wasting them, I suppose? Stupid, right? I should get back to fixing the Mantaray, really, or sell it. Doesn’t deserve to sit in my garage in bits.”

Chops approached him with a stick, so he took it and flung it away, watching it arc through the air as both dogs charged after it.

"How long have you lived here?" John asked.

"Bought it...just after we made 'Wild in the City', but I didn't get around to really moving in until about a year later - we were touring, and there was stuff to do. So about...eight years, I suppose. Had a place in town until then."

"Not sure I've ever met anyone too busy to move into the house they just bought before," John grinned.

"Yeah, well, crazy times. Crazy money. You can almost forget what you own. Sounds stupid, but it just...whatever you do, there's always royalties rolling in. Can send you mad. Probably did send Tommy mad."

"I can't imagine...but that's the point, really, isn't it?" John said. "No one can imagine it."

Lestrade shook his head. "I still remember the first time I ever held a five pound note. I'd been fostered, and the guy sent me into the petrol station, to pay for his fuel. Handed me a fiver. Y'know what I did?"

John shook his head.

"I seriously considered taking it and running. I'd never had that much cash in my hands before - didn't think I'd ever get it again. I thought...I could just run, and live off it..." he smiled and shook his head. "And now...I could fucking wipe my arse on fivers and not even notice. Doesn't feel real. Doesn't feel like any of it's real. Partly why I bought this place - I can enjoy it, it's mine, touch it, walk about on it, know what it is. Not like all the numbers piling up in my bank accounts."

"The pictures in your interview room, of the charity projects, they must cost a bit to run, too?" John said

"Yeah, they do, I mean, it's a lot, but relatively speaking, not much. It's harder to make sure your cash isn't being misappropriated though, out there. I've got some fantastic people working for me, locals, who were out there trying to run charities before I turned up. You could get paranoid thinking about it all, worrying, and I try not to. But the thought of my cash being used for something it wasn't intended for - I don't mean a bit here and there, I mean...like, proper bastards, exploiting other people through it, or going against everything we're trying to work for, it can paralyse you."

"And that happens?"

Lestrade nodded. "Don't get me wrong, I understand, if you've got nothing and some fucker turns up and pays for new buildings, new staff, facilities, all that, then I understand how tempting it must be, to try and take some, to hope no one notices. But they're stealing from their own kids. Kids who have nothing. I suppose the way they look at it is an unending stream of money, and if they take something, it'll be replaced. But it doesn't work quite like that, sadly."

"Are they all orphanages?" John asked, twisting slightly in his seat, to look at Lestrade.

"Nope, some are rehab centres, for children - and adults - who've been injured by fighting or accidents. Some are community centres, to give villages somewhere public to hold meetings, groups, co-ops, all sorts. There's a couple of schools, all kinds of things. When I started it was one school, one village. Now there's a whole team of people who work full time on it."

"And you just...you just pay, for all that? Just because..."

"Because I hate to think of anyone growing up without a chance," Lestrade said, looking down and picking at the edge of a sticker on his bike. "I grew up in one of the richest nations in the world, and I was told I'd never amount to anything. These kids are so full of...hope, they're eager, they want to learn, and to work, and they just don't get the chance.” He looked out across the field, before glancing at John. “What's nice now is it's getting to the stage where a lot of the places are being run by people who went to them when they were kids, you know? So they understand, what the children have been through. And they understand how it helps, what they're doing. You...the feeling, when one of the girls told me she was training to be a teacher, and finally went back, to teach at the tiny school she’d been one of the first pupils at. God, you can’t understand how good that felt. I wanted to burst, I was so happy."

"That is...amazing, really," John answered.

Lestrade turned away, looking out across the countryside. "The people who work there are. The places are. I do things here, too. Mainly with music, trying to give youngsters a chance to do something musical, learn an instrument, join a club. It's what got us started, so it's important to me to pass the opportunity on."

"Do you go to the places? Visit?"

"Yeah, try to get everywhere at least once a year. Now we're not doing much as a band it's a lot easier. I used to fail pretty often, but I've managed it the past few years."

"Must be an inspiration to the kids, though."

Lestrade nodded slowly. "I hope so. Hope I'm not taunting them, promising them things they can never achieve."

"That's how you feel?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Feel like I don't understand kids these days, that's how I feel."

John smiled. "And you think anyone could understand you – me – any of us? When we were young?"

Lestrade glanced across at him. "No, I suppose not."

 

They ended up making a huge loop around the village, and riding through it on the way back, stopping at the small local shop for milk and bread. John was aware of a few people staring at him, but they were obviously used to having a rockstar in their midst, a few of them greeting Lestrade, and the lady behind the counter chatting to him, and slipping each of the dogs a treat.

Then they made it back to the house, and John was almost disappointed as the engines fell silent again. He pulled off his helmet, feeling the sweat in his hair and the smile on his face.

"That was fun, thanks," he said.

Lestrade gave a quick smile in return, and turned to take the helmet from him, stowing it on a large shelving unit.

"I need to do a bit of work, call my PA, sort out some things," Lestrade said. "If you're okay for an hour or so?"

John nodded, and once in the house headed to his laptop.

 

Sometime later he was interrupted by arms wrapping around him from behind, and a kiss on the top of his head.

"Lunch?" Lestrade asked, not waiting for an answer as he headed to the fridge.

"Great. You finished?"

"Yup. Earned my keep for another day. Labels, PAs, companies, all had their pound of flesh."

John wandered over to watch as Lestrade tipped out olives into a bowl, then cut large chunks of bread and cheese.

They ate outside, sitting on the wooden steps which led down to the lawn, both dogs doing their best to look half-starved as they begged for food.

Lestrade lay back, propped on his elbows, closing his eyes against the sun.

"You promised me a hot tub," John reminded.

"You know where it is," Lestrade answered, lazily, but John could detect the smile he was suppressing. 

"It wasn't the thought of the hot tub which was tempting me. It was more the thought of you in it."

"Ah, I see. Well in that case, I can't possibly refuse." Lestrade moved fluidly to his feet, and reached down to pull John up, teasing him with a barely-there kiss – just the subtlest brush of lips.

John followed Lestrade into the house, where towels were gathered, doors locked, and a few more kisses stolen.

Then they headed out to the other building, Lestrade pulling down the blinds. The dogs flopped onto two large rugs – obviously there for their benefit.

"I, um, don't have anything to wear," John said, as Lestrade began undressing.

"Good," Lestrade smiled.

John smiled back, with no idea why he was feeling even slightly embarrassed, after the night before. He supposed it was something to do with the bright sunlight, no covers, nowhere to hide.

Lestrade was naked first, and moved to flip the cover back, revealing the water, still apart from a shimmer where the pumps worked, circulating it.

The inside of the tub was moulded and shaped, and Lestrade stepped down into the water, glancing back at John.

"C'mon," he said, stepping down until he was waist deep, then sinking lower, briefly submerging his head and shoulders. 

John stepped forward, feeling oddly free, and slid into the warm water. Lestrade's back was shiny with water, the tattoo on the back of his left shoulder standing out, dark and solid on his skin.

Lestrade shifted, spreading his arms wide along the edge of the pool, head back. John couldn't help but let his eyes feast on the sight. Lestrade was solidly built – muscular, but not sculpted, a slight softness around his belly that was by no means fat. The sort of body you wanted to hold and be held by.

He moved and sat on one of the low shelves, the water pleasantly warm, currents just brushing over his skin.

"Mind if I put the jets on?" Lestrade asked.

John shook his head, and watched as Lestrade reached lazily for a button on the control panel, and moments later the water began to fill with bubbles, as strong jets forced the water around, pummelling his back where he sat in front of them, massaging the muscles.

Lestrade slid through the water, putting a hand on the edge either side of him, reaching for a kiss. John spread his legs, allowing Lestrade to move closer, letting out a slight groan when Lestrade's lips gently pressed against his ear, then jaw.

He tipped his head back, letting the water take the weight of his limbs, shivering slightly as Lestrade kissed down his neck. He could feel the droplets of water falling from Lestrade's hair, sliding over his skin, chased by Lestrade's tongue.

His hands found Lestrade's body, fingertips ghosting over his chest, and he turned his head to find Lestrade's lips and kiss him properly.

As their tongues gently slid over one another, lips and teeth nipping and sucking, John felt a hand slide down his back, pulling him away from the wall, and he instinctively wrapped his legs loosely around Lestrade, anchoring himself, tilting his hips until he felt his erection bump gently against Lestrade's.

Lestrade's hand moved to dip between them, but didn't stop where he expected; instead sliding downward, between them, fingers curling and finally brushing between his buttocks, sending a jolt of unexpected pleasure through him. The touch was to light it was barely discernible from the flow of the water, but so intimate that he felt his cock twitch in anticipation of what might follow.

He stayed still, not wanting to interrupt the sensation, feeling the movement of bones and tendons in Lestrade's wrist shifting against his inner thigh, and the corresponding thrilling brushes of fingertips over his hole. But as Lestrade held him tighter he was forced to reciprocate, wrapping his arms around Lestrade, trapping their cocks together, between their bodies, deepening the kiss. He moved one hand further down, palm over Lestrade's buttock, fingertips just dipping into his crack, and finally, unable to stop himself, shifting his hips to thrust himself up, between them. It wasn't tight enough, but it was something, and he gasped into Lestrade's mouth.

As he relaxed his hips back again he felt a slight increase in pressure on his sphincter, and he pushed back a little further, needing more than the teasing caress.

"You're sure?" Lestrade managed to ask, between kisses.

John moaned his assent, and suddenly found himself lifted, the water rushing out from in between them, cascading down, splashing over the edge onto the wood floor. He was put down on the edge of the tub, lower legs still in the bubbling water, Lestrade leaning over him as he was pushed down on his back, teeth grazing over his skin as rough kisses were pressed on his chest and shoulders. Finally his nipple was grasped, tugged and released by teeth, then laved by a soft tongue. The finger returned, not quite breaching his entrance, but firing all his nerves. He reached, blindly, trying to touch Lestrade, fingers running through short hair, finding the rough stubble on his cheeks, reaching and grabbing for more. But Lestrade kept moving lower, sucking the water from the sensitive creases between legs and groin, then a firm hand gripped his cock and began a slow, steady rhythm. He felt helpless, useless, wanting to reciprocate, but unable to.

"Fuck, L…Greg, fuck," the words were no more than whispers, carried on his panting breath. The hand left him for a moment, and he heard Lestrade spit. He thought he should perhaps find it slightly uncouth, but right now he didn't care, as long as it led to more pleasure. He wanted to beg for more, to feel Lestrade really inside him, but the doctor within him meant it was out of the question, and Lestrade didn't seem to be pushing for anything more.

He blinked open heavy eyes, looking up, seeing the slight smile on Lestrade's face, the flick of tongue over lips.

"Wish I could do more," Lestrade said, voice low, rough. "Wish I could slide inside you, inside your hot body, feel you surround me. Bet you're tight, bet you'd feel amazing, around my cock. I could push into your hot arse, fuck you, feel you gripping me. Fill you right up, you'd feel so good, feel good already." He gave his fingertip a gentle wiggle, sending a shudder of pleasure through John. " Christ, I can imagine how good you'd look, panting for more. If I pulled out you'd be open for me, just waiting for me to slip back in. Or I could slide your dick into my mouth. Bet you taste sweet, feel good, your hard cock in between my lips, pushing in, all the way, fucking my throat. Would you hold me, hold me down, so you could fuck my mouth? So I could taste you? Keep fucking me, hard, until you came in my mouth."

John gave a choked moan, and suddenly he was coming, gasping out half-words, trying to push up into Lestrade's fist, thwarted by his position, helpless on his back.

"Fuck," he breathed, the last tremors of orgasm running through him, feeling Lestrade's finger slide away from his hole, up between his legs, teasingly over his balls. He felt like jelly, limbs heavy and unable to move.

"I'd love to," Lestrade murmured.

John let out a huff of laughter, but pushed himself up to sitting, reaching for a kiss, aware of the sticky mess all over him.

Lestrade grabbed a nearby towel and gave John's abdomen a quick rub over, then kissed him back, smiling when John's hand closed around his cock.

They ended up sprawled back on the wooden slats again, John half on top of Lestrade, fist pumping him while they kissed. John moved from deep, satisfying, kisses, tongues battling and teeth nipping, to gentle, feather-soft brushes of his lips over Lestrade's neck and ears, sucking the metal rings into his mouth, letting them rattle on his teeth.

He felt Lestrade's hips move erratically, pushing against him.

"Fuck my hand, come on," he said, tightening his grip. "Come on, come for me, imagine that's my arse you're fucking, imagine you're inside me."

Lestrade's eyes flickered closed, and John could feel his erection growing impossibly harder before he reached a shuddering climax, his fingertips digging into John's hip.

"God, you look good," John said quietly, looking up and down Lestrade's body – wet, tanned, panting for breath, white semen splashed across the tanned skin.

Lestrade huffed a breath of amusement, then reached blindly for the soiled towel, wiping himself down, offering to John to clean his hand.

"C'mon," he reached lazily for John and sat up, sliding back into the still-bubbling water and sighing. John followed him in, limbs floating lazily, and they ended up cuddled together, John's head resting back on Lestrade's arm, both of them drifting on the water, and in their own thoughts.

The jets abruptly stopped, their timed cycle running to an end, and all John could hear was the gentle panting of the dogs nearby, and some birdsong in the garden. He felt more relaxed than he had done in years.

 

When they finally stirred, dragging themselves out of the water and drying themselves off, both dogs leapt up, after attention and food.

They spent a lazy evening, Lestrade reading through a large manual, which, from what John could tell, was about some music software for the computer, John flicking channels on the TV before giving up and reaching for a stack of magazines which sat by the sofa.

That night there was no question of which bed he would end up in, and fell asleep, comfortable in a loose embrace.


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade groaned as the harsh ringtone of his phone broke the early morning peace. He unwrapped his arms from John's warm body and reached for his 'phone, fumbling it as he managed to answer it, then sticking it between his ear and his shoulder.

"Lestrade," he said, sleepily.

John rolled over onto his back, reaching for Lestrade's waist, to wrap his arms around the other man. But Lestrade's body language changed completely, and within a second he had shifted, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand rubbing his eyes.

"What? How? When?" he asked, all traces of sleep gone.

Then he slumped, face in his hand, silent as the other person spoke.

"I can't...shit," he stood, moving away, tugging on his jeans, but failing to do up either zip or stud. "Shit, Christ." 

He didn't look at John as he left the room.

John's own phone buzzed on the opposite bedside table, and John sighed, reaching for it.

'Another murder. Where was Lestrade in the early hours of the morning? SH'

John glanced at the door Lestrade had left through, worry flooding him. He scrambled out of bed, stuffing his arms into a shirt and pulling on his own trousers. As he stepped out into the hallway he could hear Lestrade talking downstairs, so ran down two at a time, following the sound to the kitchen.

Lestrade was holding the phone between his palm and his ear, resting his forehead on his arm, against the glass of the patio doors.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "I will, but...I've tried. I know, I'll work something out, whatever happens."

There was another pause and he took a long, shaky breath, then spoke again. "Yeah. Thanks for...y'know." He dropped the phone into his hand, stabbing the button to cut it off, then standing, motionless, staring out at the garden in the pale early morning light.

John hesitated, then walked up behind Lestrade, slipping a hand onto his back.

"Sherlock texted," he said, hoping that was enough to show he understood.

Lestrade just nodded, and John could see the brightness of unshed tears in his eyes.

"Is there anything I can..."

Lestrade shook his head. "I need to...I've got to make some calls," he said.

"Can I get you a coffee? Something to eat?" John offered, guessing that 'some calls' could take a while, given the circumstances.

Lestrade shook his head, then changed his mind. "Coffee, please. I'll just..." he lifted the phone, scrolling through his contacts and pressing one, lifting the phone back to his ear.

John could see the awkwardness in his movements, as his finger joints were still stiff and sore from waking, but he also knew there was no chance of getting Lestrade to sit for a while to ease them.

Lestrade rubbed his eyes in the crook of his elbow and waited for the phone call to be answered.

"Toby? Greg. Yeah, I do, look, there's been another. Yeah. We need to call it off. No, not forever, for now, until they can sort it! Well, as long as it takes. No. No, Jesus! This is people's lives were talking about - it's a bit more fucking important than money, isn't it? What...Get fucked, Toby, I'll pay them back every penny, if that's all that matters. I don't give a shit. Well we'll explain! Surely they can see that it's not worth people dying over..." his voice broke slightly, and John could feel a tightness in his chest as he glanced over to see tears leaving shining trails of moisture as they wove their way through Lestrade's stubble. His own eyes threatened to brim over and he rapidly blinked.

"Well I'll fucking speak to them, then," Lestrade continued, voice hoarser, more strained. "Give me the number. I don't give a shit that it's 6 in the morning. Think that boy's parents wanted to be woken in the middle of the night and told their kid was dead? No, exactly, so give me the fucking number."

He turned abruptly, pulling the newspaper toward him and reaching for a pen. As he tried to hold it he kept losing his grip and dropping it, so John quickly stepped forward, laying his right hand over Lestrade's and picking up the pen, looking up at him.

"Oh, one, two, four..." he dictated the number out, and John wrote it down on the blank margin of the paper. "Yeah, you will," Lestrade finally said, hanging up again. "Thanks," he said to John, spinning the paper toward him and beginning the slow process of typing the number into his phone.

"Who was that?" John asked.

"Head of the record company." Lestrade answered. "Wanker. Thinks the fucking funding is more important than those kids."

John just nodded, then went to fetch the coffee as Lestrade picked his phone up again.

He wondered how to answer Sherlock's text. He couldn't be more certain that Lestrade's alibi was watertight - but it was how to tell Sherlock, and Dimmock and the others - that. He looked down at his phone, and finally hit 'reply'.

'We went to bed very late. I can vouch for him.' It was, he decided, not in any way a lie, but it could possibly be misconstrued. And he hoped it would be.

The lack of any reply made him hope that Sherlock was satisfied.

Lestrade was now leaning heavily on the centre island of the kitchen, forehead in his hand. From the sound of it John could guess that whoever he was now speaking to wasn't happy about cancelling the show either. Lestrade went through the same repertoire of swearing, pleading, offering money, but ended up hanging up and dropping his phone, ignoring it as it clattered off the edge of the fruit bowl and face down onto the worktop. He rested his head in both hands, fingers pushed into his hair.

John hesitantly moved to stand next to him, the silence stretching.

Finally Lestrade moved, standing up straight and turning to lean next to John. "I need to go into town. Talk to the cast, the crew, everyone."

John nodded. "Please - let me sort out your hands first, just quickly, not the full wax treatment."

Lestrade nodded, reaching for his coffee and slumping into one of the kitchen chairs. John retrieved some oil and a towel, then sat across from him, warming and kneading his hands, moving the joints carefully, aware of each flinch and grimace Lestrade gave. He worked quickly and efficiently, and within ten minutes he wiped the excess oil from Lestrade's skin and nodded.

"Right. You're good to go."

 

John wasn't surprised that Lestrade was largely silent as they dressed and readied themselves to go into London - he could only begin to guess what was going on in the other man's head.

He put on jeans and a jacket, and noticed that Lestrade had dressed all in black. He wondered if it was on purpose or not.

 

The drive into town was to a soundtrack of a far-too-happy DJ, and the sound of the tyres on the wet road. A few times John tried to think of something to say, but he always closed his mouth in silence after a few seconds. Nothing seemed right. Lestrade's grip was tight on the steering wheel, his face a set frown, and John just wanted to be able to make everything all right again. But despite what they'd done, how intimate they'd been, in so many ways he knew they were still strangers, thrown together by tragedy.

 

When they reached the theatre there were photographers and reporters, all crowding around the car and falling onto Lestrade like a pack of baying hounds, all shouting out questions, snapping pictures, virtually climbing over one another.

Lestrade pushed through them, head down, one hand up to protect his eyes from the flashes.

John trailed in his wake, apologising when people walked into him or elbowed him in the crush. He wondered how on earth anyone dealt with the press without punching at least one of them in the face on a regular basis.

 

An hour later John stood at the back of the room, by the door, watching as Lestrade addressed the entire cast. He was leaning back against a table, arms crossed, but occasionally uncrossing so he could run a hand through his already-messy hair.

"I know…I know you must all be pretty worried, and if any of you want to leave, then you can. You can walk out, and I'll supply you with a top notch reference, and explain the circumstances to anyone who gets in touch. But…the production is still going ahead."

There were a few gasps and mutters around the room, which made a change from the quiet sniffs and choked sobs which had been audible since Dimmock broke the news of the latest murder.

"I wanted it called off, I'll be honest. I don't think it's worth the risk, not until this psycho is caught. But it's not my choice. So, to try and…If you want to stay, I'm sorting out a hotel, and any one of you who wants can stay there, sleep there, eat there, everything. There'll be security, and you'll be driven between here and there. If you've got families and kids and things, and you don't want to move into the hotel, then I'll cover the cost of getting taxis and everything, from your homes. It's not a problem. I want you all to be safe. The hotel's got different sizes of rooms – if you want to be on your own, that's fine, if you want to pick a room mate, that's fine too. We'll get it all sorted out."

He surveyed the room, and John did too, watching as people talked between themselves, arms around each other, tissues held to faces, hands squeezed and backs rubbed.

John tried to catch his eye, but failed.

"So, rehearsals are off for today. Just…stick around, and we'll take names and things. And…you know, when you're not here, please, take care of yourselves. Stick in groups, don't be out alone, call nine nine nine if you're worried."

John watched as the dark brown eyes scanned the room, filled with a look of such sadness that he had to physically stop himself walking across the room and wrapping his arms around Lestrade.

Dimmock said a few words to Lestrade, then walked away, nodding to John on his way out. Then, slowly, people moved, separated off into groups, talking, crying, leaving a very lonely figure at the front of the room.

John didn't move as the room filled with silence, with thoughts and emotions. Lestrade was as still as a statue, arms crossed, head bowed.

Finally he walked the length of the room, through the empty chairs, and stood in front of Lestrade. "Greg…"

Lestrade nodded, looking up, taking a deep breath. Then his gaze flicked over John's shoulder.

"John," a familiar voice greeted. "Lestrade."

"Mr Holmes," Lestrade's voice was rough with emotion, but he cleared his throat and met Sherlock's steady stare.

"It was similar," Sherlock addressed John. "Same killer, it would seem, although not having seen the first bodies, I can't be absolutely certain."

John watched as Sherlock's eyes darted around, from him to Lestrade, their proximity, their expressions, and he knew Sherlock knew.

"I wanted to…cancel the production," Lestrade said. "I wanted to…"

"Pointless. You'll be giving him what he wants."

"What he wants?" Lestrade stood up straight, stepping toward Sherlock. "What he bloody wants? What about what I want? What about what these people deserve? Not to live in fear of being killed? Not to put them in a position where they might be killed? What about that?" His voice was raised – not quite a shout, but not far off.

"It won't come to that. If he makes another move we'll be waiting. I have the evidence, I just need to process it, add it to what the police already had. I'll catch him."

Lestrade seemed to sag, as if the fight had gone out of him.

"I hope so," he said quietly. "I bloody hope so."

The silence threatened to blanket the room again, but Lestrade moved, rubbing his hand over his face. "I've got…lots to do," he glanced at John, then looked at Sherlock, before turning and walking away.

John watched him leave, aware that Sherlock was staring at him.

"You're sleeping together."

"Yes." John knew there was no point in being surprised, or attempting any sort of denial.

"Your text regarding alibi, the way you were standing together," Sherlock waved a hand, as if it were all obvious, whilst answering the unasked question they both knew was there.

"Right, yes," John nodded.

"And you are sure? That it couldn't have been him?"

"I think I'd have noticed," John answered.

Sherlock huffed, then turned and left the room, coat tails sweeping behind him.

John stood alone, before finally deciding that he was no longer needed in the theatre. Lestrade was busy, Sherlock plainly didn't need him – either to watch Lestrade, or to assist with other threads of the investigation. So he went out, walking down the road, onto the busy, bustling streets. Somehow he found it easier to think, surrounded by strangers, by people just getting on with their lives around him.

He found a coffee shop and sat in the window, watching the taxis and buses and people, threading through one another, paths crossing, a finely tuned dance in the packed city. A long way from the quiet of the countryside.

 

As he headed back to the theatre he stopped by a chemist, glancing in, his mind suddenly torn. He stepped inside, the ding of the bell above the door far too loud in the silence of the shop. An elderly man appeared from the back room and smiled at him. John smiled back reflexively.

"What can I get you?" the man asked.

John's eyes flicked to the shelf by the counter. A whole row of different packets – colours, brands, types of condoms, all staring back at him. The Madness song leapt into his head, and he wanted to laugh. He was in his thirties – he wasn't an embarrassed teenager buying his first condoms from a machine in a pub toilet. He grabbed a pack of Durex Extra Strong and reached for his wallet, paying without making eye contact with the man. He stuffed the packet, wrapped in a bag, into his pocket and left the shop, feeling utterly ridiculous as he glanced both ways to check that no one had seen him.

He headed back to the theatre, and waited, hand occasionally checking the bulge in his pocket nervously.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay.

Lestrade pushed the door open, kicked off his shoes and walked through to the kitchen, trying to fend off two excited dogs as he headed for the back door to let them out.

As soon as they were free, bouncing across the lawn, chasing each other, Lestrade turned to the fridge and got out two bottles of beer, holding one out to John.

"You should probably eat something first," John said, but took the bottle anyway.

"Not hungry," Lestrade replied. "You help yourself, though."

He walked away, and John stood in the kitchen, unsure what to do with himself. He finally decided they both needed to eat something, at some point, so began preparing a salad and some cold meat, hoping he could persuade Lestrade into eating a bit of it.

He could hear the low murmur of Lestrade talking on the telephone in his office, so kept out of the way, tidying up a little and throwing toys for the dogs when they bounded up to the door, looking for some entertainment and affection.

 

Finally he took a plate of food through to where Lestrade was sitting at his desk, forehead resting on his hand, working on the computer.

"You need to eat," he said firmly, putting the plate down.

Lestrade gave him a weak smile. "Thanks."

"What are you doing?" John stepped up beside him, and watched the video on the screen. Of a boy dancing and singing in what looked like a bare dance studio, all wood and mirrors.

"He's the latest...the one who...the victim," Lestrade said quietly. "Only seventeen. Moved down to London to dance. He was good - could have easily worked his way up, been a lead one day."

John slid his hand onto Lestrade's shoulder. "I know it may not feel like it, but this wasn't your fault. You couldn't have prevented it."

Lestrade rubbed his face. "Yeah, keep telling myself that. But I still don't believe it. I should've...done something, sooner. Some nutter is killing my cast and I just..."

"You didn't know that, not for sure. And you can't keep track of every one of them, every second. It's a tragedy, but it's not your fault."

Lestrade dragged his hand over his face, callused skin on his hands rasping over rough stubble on his chin. He sighed and closed the file, leaving a backdrop on the screen of a dry, dusty African village, complete with some skeletal trees.

"Come and sit down, eat, try to relax, just a bit."

John was pleased when Lestrade did eat the dinner, although some scraps went to the dogs. He was slightly less so when Lestrade followed it with a thick spliff, but he didn't comment on it. He had no idea what sort of a state he'd have been in, where the situation reversed, and the last thing he wanted to do was preach.

 

They ended up on the sofa, John leaning heavily against Lestrade, held loosely in his arms, watching a nature programme.

Every now and then John would twist around and glance at Lestrade, who would give a small smile back, and squeeze him a little tighter, as if in reassurance.

Then, as the programme ended, and John shifted once more, Lestrade dipped his head, reaching for a kiss. John pressed his lips against Lestrade's, feeling the unfamiliar spikes of stubble surrounding soft warm skin. He moved further, trying to remove the awkward crick in his neck, and felt Lestrade shift under him, muscles contracting and moving beneath him, until Lestrade was lying in his back, John entirely on top of him.

The light from the television picked out the dips and hollows of Lestrade's face, accentuating the silver in his hair and deepening the shadow of his stubble.

John smiled down at him, then closed his eyes as he reached for another kiss.

Lestrade's hands seemed to fit perfectly on his waist, large and warm and holding him just tightly enough. He gave a small moan of approval, gently swiping the tip of his tongue over Lestrade's lips.

Lestrade pushed his hand up over the smooth skin of John's back, under his shirt, pulling him down to mould their bodies together perfectly. John ran his fingers through Lestrade’s hair, tracing down his jawline as they kissed. Repeated short, dry kisses became longer, tongues slid across each other, lips were found and caught in between teeth, gently and playfully. Lestrade pushed one hand under John's waistband, shoving it down inside the denim to knead a muscular buttock.

John responded by pushing his hips further against him, shifting so he was lying between Lestrade's legs. Lestrade just held tighter, moving with him, enjoying the weight and warmth of the body on top of him.

It wasn't long before John was ready for more. He tried to push Lestrade's shirt up, to touch the skin, the fine hairs on his stomach and chest, but the fabric rucked up and his hands were prevented from going where they wished.

"Come on," Lestrade said between kisses. "'S go somewhere more comfortable."

John managed to roll off Lestrade and stand, then reached down and hauled Lestrade up. "Too old for snogging on the sofa?" he teased.

"Definitely," Lestrade smiled, pulling John close. "When there are far, far better places to be."

John waited while Lestrade locked up the house, watching the ritual. Then he led the way upstairs, jumping when a hand slid over his left buttock, and turning to smile at Lestrade.

"You can't tempt me like that and then look surprised," Lestrade grinned.

 

Once they were in the bedroom John slid his hands over the rough stubble of Lestrade's cheeks, taking a moment to just look, explore the dark brown eyes - impossibly deep, and the pupil barely distinguishable from the iris. The slight dimple in his chin, fingers skimming over the heavy metal earrings that hung from his left ear. Lestrade glanced into his eyes, then away, moving in for a kiss, to stop John's scrutiny.

John dragged up Lestrade's t-shirt, breaking the kiss for long enough to allow Lestrade to pull it off over his head. Then he slid his hands over Lestrade's body, enjoying the feel of muscles under smooth skin.

"I…I bought condoms," he said, half embarrassed, but needing Lestrade to know. 

Lestrade gave a slow smile. "Doctor, Army, boy scout?" he said, punctuating each with a kiss. "Well I'm glad you remembered."

John's own shirt was quickly removed, and he stepped close to Lestrade, pressing skin on skin, feeling strong arms wrap around him.

"I'm sorry, about the dancer," he said softly. "I know it's hard. But it really isn't your fault."

Lestrade took a deep breath and rested his cheek against John's temple. "Thank you."

John moved, catching Lestrade's lips again, kissing slowly, gently, running his hands over Lestrade's body, finally unfastening the stud of Lestrade's jeans.

 

Once they were both naked Lestrade led John to the en suite, turning on the shower, the huge shower head letting the water fall like rain.

"Worried I'm unclean?" John teased, as the steam built around them.

"No, but the things I want to do to you are exceedingly dirty," Lestrade grinned, dragging John under the hot spray and kissing him hard, hands sliding down his wet body and cupping his arse, pulling him closer.

John gave an appreciative groan as the warm water washed away the sweat and grime of the day – the summer heat seemed fresher in the countryside, but still relentless. He smiled as Lestrade squirted some shower gel into one hand and began carefully soaping up John's chest, pushing the bubbles around, over his shoulders, then down around his waist, to his arse again, hands now slippery and slick, on palm sliding down the centre of his bum, a finger dipping into the crack as Lestrade kissed him again, water cascading down his face, just adding to the sensation.

John couldn't help but smile into the kiss, soaping his own hands, and running them over strong biceps, down to smooth thighs, pressing his chest against Lestrade's. They slowly worked around washing, kissing, hands slipping lower, until Lestrade finally tipped his head back under the water, sluicing off the remaining soap bubbles and pulling John in after him, then stepping away, leaving wet footprints on the dark tiles as he gathered two large towels, slinging one around his neck and holding the other out, wrapping it around John, and once he was caught up in it, dragging him close for a hard kiss, taking advantage of his arms being trapped.

John smiled, wriggling free, and trying to rub his skin dry, as Lestrade did his best to distract him, with kisses to the neck, hands which wandered over John's body, squeezing his buttocks, running long lines down the smooth curve of his back.

 

Finally, once mainly dry, they made it to the bed. The open window sending whispers of cool breeze through the room, a contrast to the hot touches and warm breath.

Lestrade propped himself up on his elbow, fingertips brushing over John's skin, finally reaching down and stroking two fingers over John's balls. His touch was just the right pressure – not ticklish, but teasing. John began to move, but Lestrade rolled over slightly, gently pinning him to the bed as he leant on John's chest, kissing him as his hand continued to work, and smiling as John relaxed into the touch.

John managed to free the hand that was trapped under Lestrade, and stroked down the silky hair on Lestrade's stomach, groaning slightly when he couldn't reach down far enough. Lestrade just laughed, kissing him again and wrapping his hand around John's cock.

John's breath caught in his throat - he couldn't help the reflexive jerk of his hips, and closed his eyes as the firm grip moved just a little – enough to make John want to push his hips upwards, seeking more. He opened his eyes a little as he heard a low laugh from Lestrade.

"You're very eager," Lestrade said, in explanation. "Pass the lube."

John moved, stretching for the bottle and gave a small gasp as lips and gentle teeth fastened over his nipple, sending a shiver of pleasure through him. He dropped back to the bed, lube held loosely in his hand as he enjoyed Lestrade's attentions, sliding his hands through the greying hair as Lestrade moved to his other nipple. He let out a moan as teeth nipped the hard flesh before Lestrade's soft tongue slid across to soothe it. Then Lestrade reached for the bottle, flicking the cap back with his thumb and turning away for a second to watch as some of the gel fell from the bottle to hit John's hot flesh.

He hissed as the cold rapidly slid down his erection, quickly gathered by Lestrade's hand, the bottle cast aside on the bed. Lestrade turned back to kiss him, leaning on him, pushing him down into the mattress, rough stubble harsh on his lips before Lestrade's tongue swiped across them, and they both deepened the kiss, John wrapping his arms around Lestrade's neck. He pushed his cock up into the tight fist, just beginning to find a rhythm when abruptly the hot, tight tunnel of Lestrade's fist was gone, and replaced with fingers brushing down over his balls, slick with lube, then slipping lower, between his legs.

John couldn't help but shamelessly spread himself further open, legs sprawled wide on the bed. He dragged his fingernails lightly over Lestrade's back, a lazy movement as he focused on what Lestrade's fingers were doing, teasing down his crack, then back up to his balls, each touch full of promise, but stopping just short of allowing John to truly enjoy it, or squirm against it.

"Tease," he accused, reaching across himself with his other hand, dragging fingertips over Lestrade's stubble and encouraging him closer for a kiss.

"Want more?" Lestrade said, lips almost touching his.

"Mmmm," John agreed.

"Roll over," Lestrade ordered, sliding his hand up from between John's legs, gripping his cock briefly, hand still slick.

John obeyed, stretching out on the soft cotton as he did so, feeling the dip and movement of the mattress as Lestrade shifted too. As he settled on his stomach he twisted slightly, watching as Lestrade moved to his hands an knees, dipping his head and gently biting John's bum cheek.

"Oi," John laughed.

"Irresistible," Lestrade replied, crawling around a little further and biting the other side.

"Didn't have you down as a canni…bal," John's breath hitched as Lestrade blew cool air over the slick lube smeared over his hole.

"Only the very choicest cuts," Lestrade murmured in reply, dipping his head and dragging his tongue up the crack of John's arse.

John jumped, half trying to squirm away, but loving the sensation. "Greg…you…God," he gripped the bedding, moving his hips slightly, pressing his erection into the mattress, then moving back to open himself up a little more.

Lestrade made a satisfied moan, and the vibrations made John close his eyes, just concentrating on the pleasure. Lestrade was varying his actions – long swipe with the flat of his tongue, then gentle swirls and licks with the tip, before burying his face deeper, stubble and soft lips contrasting to make John writhe with pleasure.

"Oh God, that's…" he tried to reach around, to run his fingers through Lestrade's hair, to get any sort of control or contact.

"Get on your knees," Lestrade ordered, between licks. Then paused for a moment, allowing John to shift, pull his knees under him, then got straight back to it.

"Love…the way…you taste," he said, punctuating the words with thrusts of his tongue. "Could do…this…all day…"

John pressed his face into the pillow, then felt a fingertip join the tongue.

"God, yes, please," he moaned.

The finger pressed inside him, just teasing, moving slightly, Lestrade's tongue still there too, flickering over his skin. He pushed back, biting his lip, hating that Lestrade moved with him, denying him the ability to fuck himself on the finger.

"Mmm, you are eager," Lestrade said, pushing in a little further, crooking his finger slightly.

"Just…come on, Christ, I want you," John closed his eyes, unable to believe what was happening. That there was a rockstar – and idol to millions, currently doing unspeakably wonderful things to his arse, with only the promise of more pleasure to come. 

Another finger joined the first, and this time John was allowed to move, to rock back onto them.

"Look at you, how gorgeous you are," Lestrade said softly. "Bloody beautiful." He stroked his free hand over John's bum, them reached around, wrapping his fist around John's cock, letting John thrust into it, them impale himself on the two fingers, watching as his mouth fell open, breath coming in gasps, hands gripping fistfuls of bedding as he worked his hips back and forth. "Jesus, watching you…fucking yourself, making me so fucking hard," Lestrade said, voice hoarse.

"Do it, please, want you, want your cock inside me, need you…" John panted, wriggling his hips to try and take more, feel more.

Lestrade finally moved, pulling his fingers free from John, dipping his head for one last lick, tongue sliding into the loosened hole. Then he sprawled out, lying back on the bed, propped up on the headboard, encouraging John to move, pulling him close for a kiss, and smiling when John straddled him.

John reached to the bedside table and pulled out the box of condoms, pulling one of the foil packs free.

Lestrade caught sight of the box and laughed slightly. "Not taking any chances, Doc? Extra strong?"

John blushed slightly. "They're…well…"

Lestrade grinned, taking the packet. "I know. Probably a good thing. Without one of these I'd probably come the second your tight body slips onto my cock."

John smiled, the start of nerves beginning to build in his stomach.

"Come here," Lestrade gently slid his hand onto John's cheek. "And stop bloody thinking. All you need to know is that you're fucking gorgeous, and I will do anything to make you come so hard you won't even remember your own name, let alone mine."

"I wasn't..." John was silenced with a hard kiss.

Lestrade ripped open the foil, shifted slightly and rolled the rubber over his erection, closing his eyes briefly at the sensation.

John couldn't help but watch, cataloguing the size of Lestrade's cock, the slight upward curve, the dark hair shot through with grey. And think about the fact it was soon to be buried in his arse, thick and hot and hard.

"In your own time," Lestrade grinned. "If you're sure."

"Sure?" John grabbed the lube, squirting a generous handful out, then reached down and slicked up Lestrade, the rubber feeling odd and unfamiliar in his hand. "Bloody certain."

He shifted, edging forward on his knees, feeling Lestrade's hand settle on his hips, and sank down slightly, watching as Lestrade slid a hand between them, holding the base of his cock steady.

John shivered at the first touch, cool and slick, and tried to relax himself, taking a deep breath.

"Okay?" Lestrade asked softly.

John nodded, then gave a small smile. "It's been a while."

Lestrade's hand shifted from his hip, drawing gentle lines down his body, over his stomach, and John moved again, feeling the pressure, the wet lube, the insistent push and then the stretch as his body opened up, allowing Lestrade's thick cock to slip inside.

He opened his eyes, looking down at Lestrade, whose lips were slightly open, tongue flicking out to wet them. He reached out, steadying himself with a hand on Lestrade's stomach, and felt the muscles twitch as Lestrade slid past the first tight ring of muscle.

"Fuck," Lestrade breathed, moving the hand that was between them.

John breathed deeply again, but couldn't help smiling widely. "If anyone had ever told me, I could one day have your cock up my arse..." he laughed.

Lestrade couldn't help but smile. "Never imagined I'd have a chance with a hot, fit, intelligent fucking doctor," he answered. "Yet here we are."

John relaxed, and felt another inch or so slip inside him, Lestrade letting out a slight moan. It spurred him on, and he kept going, until finally he felt completely full, settled on Lestrade's hips, both hands splayed across Lestrade's stomach.

"C'me here," Lestrade sat up slightly, pulling John’s shoulder until their lips met in a kiss. The movement caused Lestrade to pull out slightly, and John let his eyelids flutter closed in pleasure as he settled again, body humming with excitement.

"You are bloody lovely," Lestrade murmured, sliding a palm down John's chest, pausing to give one nipple a pinch, and grunting slightly as John tensed at the slight pain, muscles gripping his dick. "Gorgeous," he continued, stroking down John’s stomach and finally sliding under his balls, gently stroking one callused finger over the soft skin before wrapping a loose fist around John's straining cock.

John was powerless against his body's natural urges. He thrust forward slightly into the touch, then sank back onto the hard flesh inside him, unable to stop himself giving a slight moan of pleasure.

"Jesus, you have no idea how good you look," Lestrade murmured. "Fucking yourself, yeah, just like that." He shifted slightly, and as John relaxed down Lestrade thrust up, causing John to pant out a groan.

They settled into a rhythm - one which John thought was agonisingly slow, but every time he tried to speed it up Lestrade's hands would tighten on his hips, forcing him to keep the steady pace. He twisted slightly, canting his hips to wring out every last shiver of pleasure from each movement.

"Le...Greg, please, just..." his breath came in short gasps as he fought to speed up.

"No way, look at you, beautiful - you've no fucking clue how good you look, do you? I don't ever want this to be over, not when you look and feel so fucking good."

"I just..." John moved his left hand from Lestrade's stomach and reached for his own erection, needing to do something to change the maddening shiver of pleasure running through him, the slow-boil that was keeping him so close, but never threatening to tip him over.

Lestrade's hand moved swiftly, gripping his wrist. "Not a chance, Doc," he said, voice husky. "You don't get to touch yourself. You want more, I get to give it to you."

"Please, just...anything," John ground down onto Lestrade, trying to make sure every millimetre of hard cock was inside him before sliding up, loving the sensation, and then plunging back down, until he was almost too full.

Lestrade broke the rhythm, shifting beneath him, and before John knew what was happening strong arms slid around him, holding him tightly, and he tipped backwards as Lestrade managed to move them without withdrawing, until John was on his back on the bed, arse propped on Lestrade's knees, legs wrapped around Lestrade's waist.

"Shit!" John exclaimed, arms sprawled across the bedding, head spinning from the sudden move.

Lestrade thrust, and John moaned as, somehow, he became more full, more stretched, the sensation almost overwhelming. Lestrade knelt up slightly, moving John's legs to leave him completely open and exposed, then pulled out horrifically slowly, causing John to squirm and finally gasp as Lestrade left him completely, muscles relaxed, hole open, and then there was a beat, a moment of emptiness and cool air, before Lestrade pushed all the way in, in one long, smooth thrust, eyes closed, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

"Fuck..." John breathed, fingers scrunching up the bedding.

Lestrade repeated the move, pushing in even faster, making John squeeze his eyes closed and see stars.

After a few more deep, steady thrusts, John was certain he couldn't take any more. His own cock was leaking all over his stomach, his balls were tight. He could feel the building pleasure, white hot inside him.

"Please, fuck me, please," he panted, and felt a strong hand on his shoulder, holding him, pulling him down onto Lestrade, his body now unable to slide away. His legs were lifted, calves propped against Lestrade's shoulders, and his left one was held by and arm wrapping around it. Then, as the speed and strength of the thrusts increased, a rough, hot hand wrapped around his aching dick and began a slow, not-quite-tight-enough stroke.

He squeezed the muscles in his buttocks, and heard the hitch in Lestrade's breathing. He did it again, looking up, seeing the sweat making Lestrade's hair stand in spikes, and knowing he wasn't the only one who was close.

Lestrade looked straight at him, a slight smile on his face, and then his tongue flicking out to skim over his bottom lip.

John knew there was nothing he could do to stop the build of pleasure now, he gave himself up, arching into the hand tormenting him, removing any give in his spine as he was thrust into, revelling in every movement, every spark of pleasure. He could hear his own breathing, harsh and fast, the occasional half-formed word carried on the air, and finally the hand on his tightened just enough, and he squeezed the cock inside him as hard as he could as he thrust into the fist, then back onto Lestrade's erection.

He heard Lestrade swearing, somewhere, far off, everything sounding as if he was underwater, his cum splashing across his stomach, slightly cool as it rained down on his skin in great streaks. He could feel Lestrade shaking slightly, pushing in so far it felt as if he were going to climb into John's skin with him, cock twitching inside John, feeling even bigger and harder than before.

And then there was a relaxing, a slowing, and all he could hear was breathing, none of the slap of flesh on flesh, none of the desperate little moans - some of which must have been him, he realised. Lestrade's hold on him loosened, and, finally, he was empty, legs released and carefully guided down to the mattress, abused muscles finally relaxing. He half opened his eyes, and watched as Lestrade pulled the condom off himself, tied a deft knot in it and dropped it into the now-empty box, the contents of which was strewn on the bedside table.

Then Lestrade slowly shifted sideways before crawling up and dropping onto the mattress beside him.

John turned his head and smiled, trying to find something to say, to force his brain into working.

But Lestrade just smiled back, then rolled onto his side and flung an arm across John's waist, hot and heavy and sweaty.

John laughed, interlinking his fingers with Lestrade's, and letting his eyes slide closed, feeling safe and contented in silence. His feet were propped on the pillows, head almost off the foot of the bed, where Lestrade's change of position had left them. He stretched out, easing his muscles, settling as Lestrade's grip on his waist tightened slightly.

 

At some point they moved, cleaning themselves up before climbing into bed, Lestrade wrapping his arms around John, tangling their legs together. John was far too hot, even with only a thin sheet covering them, but he didn't care, he just enjoyed the feel of Lestrade's touch. And as they both relaxed into sleep they inevitably moved and rolled, until just Lestrade's hand remained, resting heavily on John's hip.


	11. Chapter 11

The next day was largely spent around the house once more, Lestrade with endless phone calls to make, arranging his schedule in the upcoming weeks, when it seemed everyone wanted him to attend interviews, both for the press and for television. At one point he leant back in his chair, sighing and scrubbing a hand over his face, and John wondered if anyone else ever really thought about the everyday life of people like him.

"All right?" he asked, looking up from his book.

"Mmm. Just not looking forward to hundreds of people asking me the same questions over and over."

"Sounds like a hectic schedule."

"Contractual obligation. People know me, so hope my face will sell tickets. Backers wouldn't agree to funding if I didn't agree to this."

"Ah," John nodded. "And the others?"

"Yeah, we're due to do a few things together, in the last few days before opening. People will get sick of the sight of me."

"Oh, I don't think there's any danger of that," John smiled.

Lestrade snorted in disbelief. "You're biased," he accused.

"And you're not?"

He was ignored, and Lestrade headed to his small studio. John could just see the door from where he sat, curled up in the large leather chair in the office. He wasn't surprised when the sounds of the guitar came through after a few minutes.

It took him a short while before realising that he wasn't hearing the usual fluent playing, but something that sounded far more stilted and repetitive. He put his book down and went to investigate, standing by the door and watching as Lestrade worked, one hand on the mixing deck, the other resting on the computer mouse, occasionally reaching for the keyboard.

"For the album?" he finally said, making Lestrade jump.

"No, trying to teach myself how this new software works. For, y'know, if I can't play as much anymore. Trying to teach myself lots of things, for that eventuality. This is the hardest. I'm only good with some bits of computers. The rest leaves me baffled."

"Me too," John smiled. "Looks pretty complicated."

Lestrade shrugged. "It's more trying to train my brain. I want a certain sound out of my guitars, I know how to make it. This thing…I swear, I'll get it right three times, the fourth, I'll do the same thing and something totally different happens. I don't get it."

"Do I dare suggest lessons?" John smiled.

Lestrade grinned back. "Seriously thinking about it, yeah. Just got to find someone willing to explain it all to an old bloke."

 

That afternoon they took the dogs out for a long walk, once again stopping in the village for a few essentials in the shop. Whilst they were in there a woman came in, smiling at Lestrade and nodding a greeting to John.

"Greg – glad I bumped into you. Terrible business with the show, terrible. I just wanted to tell you that you can drop the girls off at mine any time you need to. No need to warn me. Just put them in the back garden, love, and I'll find them, okay?"

"You're a star, Babs," Lestrade leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. "And thanks, yeah, it is terrible. They've got the best people on it, though, so we're hoping it'll all be over soon."

"Good. I've been seeing in the newspapers, all the stupid things they say – cursed and everything, they're calling it. It's no curse, is it – just some sicko."

Lestrade gave a small smile. "Yeah. Well, the show must go on, so they tell me."

The woman glanced at John and smiled again, so Lestrade quickly stepped in. "Babs, this is John. He's my…friend, and currently part-time minder, with everything happening. John, Babs is the lady I was telling you about, takes care of Mozzy and Chops."

"Pleased to meet you," John smiled and offered his hand.

"You too. Nice to know Greg isn't rattling around that big house alone."

"I will drop the girls off to you soon, Babs," Lestrade interjected. "Got a few overnights in London coming up, and some other stuff. I'll give you a call in the next few days, when my schedules confirmed, okay?"

"Of course, Love."

 

Once they were out of the shop Lestrade glanced at John, grinning. "She was sizing you up."

"What?" John couldn't help but smile back.

"She's always telling me I should find myself someone nice – reckon she's put two and two together pretty fast there."

John rolled his eyes. "She was just being polite."

Lestrade shrugged. "If that's what you want to think."

"Sherlock er….guessed," John said a moment later. "Well, he doesn't guess. Knew, I suppose. Something about body language and stuff."

Lestrade just glanced at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Well," John shrugged. "It's what he does, reads people, works things out. He didn't seem to care. I mean, he didn't…well, didn't say anything. Just made sure I wasn't lying about my alibi for you."

"Alibi?" Lestrade stopped dead, and John mentally cursed himself.

"Well, he asked, and, you know, obviously I knew exactly where you'd been, given we were…and anyway…" he trailed off, because Lestrade was still staring at him. "It's just…procedure."

"Right, yeah, brilliant. I'm told you're here for my protection, but really he just thought I was murdering my own fucking cast? And this is the bloke who's meant to be able to read people at a single glance? Fucking fantastic. Don't suppose this entire thing is some elaborate scheme to get DNA off me, is it? What else has he asked you to do? Pictures of my house, account for all my movements – what the fuck else?"

"No – it's not, Les…Greg! It's nothing like that. He asked, of course I told him it couldn't have been you. But we didn't plan this – didn't…you kissed me, remember? I didn't plan that, did I? Didn't plan any of this – right? I was just here to make sure nothing happened to you."

"Obviously not as far as he was concerned," Lestrade said. "Feed me a nice line about it being for my own good, but clearly he just wanted you to be able to point the finger at me."

John sighed. "Maybe, yeah, maybe that is what he wanted. But it wasn't what I wanted. It wasn't what I'd planned. Okay?"

Lestrade rubbed his hand over his face. "Shit. Shit!" he turned away, staring up at the sky briefly. "I'm sorry. I know. Shit. Just call me fucking paranoid, or…I don't know. Sorry."

John stood, waiting awkwardly, not knowing what to do. The dogs merrily sniffed around as if nothing had happened, and eventually Lestrade shook his head, glanced at John, and began walking back to the house once more, holding the gate open for John.

"It…he, his methods may not be very normal," John said quietly. "But they work. I promise you that."

Lestrade didn't respond at first, but finally he glanced across at John, as they neared the front door. "Yeah. Well, suppose I should be glad I'm in the clear, shouldn't I? However it happened. Least he can concentrate on finding the killer now, not fantasising about me murdering those poor kids."

John gave an apologetic smile.

 

Later in the day Lestrade was standing in front of his large wall planner, consulting his 'phone as he noted down new appointments.

"I've got a few things to go to soon," he said, glancing back at John, who was in his usual seat, laptop on his knees. "Don't know if you want to…join me, or…am I allowed off the leash, or what?"

"You…you can do whatever you want. What sort of things?"

Lestrade turned back to the board. "Couple of film premieres, some concerts, but mainly interviews. Some breakfast tv and radio too. It's up to you. But wherever we go, there'll be press, and photographers, and…well, it depends if you want your face splashed over the gossip columns or not."

"Right. Yes. It's not something I've ever had to…think about before. I mean, what do you think? Would it bother you, if we were to be pictured together? Would you have to explain?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Wouldn’t have to do anything. And…I don't know. Depends on a lot of things. Where this might lead us, you know," he didn't turn around, instead addressing the wall in front of him. "How serious we are. How…well, yeah, a lot of things."

"Right," John repeated. "I…it's a bit soon, really, isn't it? Maybe?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Probably."

John just watched him as he noted down more appointments, and wondered if this was how it always was. Always having to make choices based on the public thirst for celebrity gossip, rather than allow things to flow their natural course.

He opened his mouth to reply when his phone rang loudly in his pocket. He fumbled for it, pulling it out, but instead of the expected 'Sherlock' on the screen there was another name. He rolled his eyes slightly and pressed the green button.

"Harry."

"Johnny!"

"What's up?" he asked, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Harry never called unless she wanted something.

"I was hoping you might tell me what on earth happened the other night – I mean, what? How come? Bloody Lestrade dedicated a song to me! You've got to tell me everything."

"It…it's a bit complicated, Harry."

"You're investigating the murders – with Sherlock, right? What's complicated about that? Where are you? We should meet up, have coffee, you can tell me all about him."

"I'm not in London right now," John said, glancing at Lestrade's back. "I…I'm not sure when I'll be back, really."

"Not in…where are you? Oh my God, are you with him? With Lestrade? Where? In his house?"

"Uh, yeah, I…yes."

"Holy shit! Ho-ly shit, John! What are you doing? What's he doing? Why are you still there? Tell me everything!"

"I, uh, Harry, it's just…nothing, y'know, like you said, the murders. That's all."

"There's something you're not telling me, Johnny," Harry said. "What's going on? Is he there right now? You sound odd."

"Yeah, yeah, he is," John answered, and Lestrade turned around, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh my God. What's he like? Is he a nice bloke? Everyone says he is. I've been reading about him. He does loads for charity and everything. Do you know how much he's worth? I Googled it – have you seen?"

"What? No – I don't want to know, Harry, I don't want…"

"One hundred and twenty million. One hundred. And twenty. Million. Pounds. I can't even…"

"Harry! I didn't want to know. I really didn't want to know," he wiped his hand over his face and looked up at Lestrade, who looked levelly back at him.

"Think what you could buy with that! You could get anything – literally anything. You'd never be able to spend it. Ever. Even if you went out spending every single day. Jesus."

"Yeah, right, can we stop this, now? And…I'll call you, sometime, soon. Okay?"

"You have fun, Johnny! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

John rolled his eyes and hung up, staring down at the screen, not wanting to meet Lestrade's gaze.

"Your sister?" Lestrade asked, voice low and gravelly.

"Yeah."

"Problem?"

"No…she…no, it's fine."

Lestrade nodded.

"I don't think I should come with you. I mean, it would be nice – lovely, in fact, but I don't want to cause you trouble. I don't want the press to start hounding you."

Lestrade nodded again. "Yeah. You're probably right."

John put his book aside and stood, holding his arms out and stepping into a hug. He felt the rough rasp of Lestrade's stubble on his temple, and rested his chin on the soft worn cotton of Lestrade's t-shirt.

"I don't…I don't know what to do," John admitted. "I feel like, this is a different world, I don't understand how it all works with the press, and publicity and people like me."

Lestrade shifted slightly, tightening his hold. "Me neither, sometimes. Me neither."

John felt Lestrade press a kiss against the side of his head, and closed his eyes, revelling in the warmth and strength of the hold.

"I do…I really think we've…we could have…Christ, I don't do this, I don't just meet people and fall into bed with them. I don't…and now…I don't know what I'm doing. But I like you – really like you – and I just don't want to stuff this up." Lestrade said, voice low and husky, his lips moving against John's ear, tickling.

John turned to press his face into Lestrade's neck, breathing in the scent of shower gel and a touch of cologne.

 

Two days later John stepped out of the car onto the wet pavement of Baker Street. Lestrade gave him a small smile, reaching out to interlink their fingers for a second.

"I'll give you a call. About eleven, I expect," Lestrade said.

John nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading for the front door. He glanced back to see the car door slide shut, the tinted windows hiding Lestrade from view. As he slid his key into the lock, the car slipped away, tyres hissing in the rain.

John felt oddly lonely, despite knowing it was only for a few hours, as he trudged up the stairs.

Sherlock didn't look up when he entered the flat. He paused for a second, then dumped his bag and headed for the kitchen.

"There isn't any milk," Sherlock said.

John redirected his hand from the normal teabags to the herbal ones. The ones that always sounded nice on the box, and never lived up to the promise.

"Any further along with the case?" John asked.

"I would have told you."

"Mmm." John agreed. "Still, not like you, not to have solved it already."

Sherlock waved a hand. "If Dimmock had called me in for the first, I would have far more data to go on. As it is this last murder is entirely without redeeming features. Well, apart from being so obviously linked to the first two."

"Without…what do you mean?" John settled into his armchair.

"Boring. No skill. All victims hit on the back of the head near their homes, then strangled. No prints. Fibre evidence ruined for the first two cases, some traces from the last. Nothing of note, however. Enough evidence to convict, if someone were to be caught. Although if left to Dimmock, there will never be an arrest."

"Right, I see."

"So where's Lestrade?"

"Concert, at the Dome. Opening night, he was invited."

"No 'plus one'?" Sherlock asked, his tone contemptuous.

"We…decided it was better not to. With all the press."

Sherlock gave a small huff of breath, which could have meant anything.

"It was my choice. I don't want all the gossip pages talking about us." Even as he said it, John wondered why he felt he had to defend their decision to Sherlock.

But Sherlock's attention was already elsewhere.


	12. Chapter 12

John sorted through the post that had arrived for him whilst he'd been away, tidied a little, trying to ignore the more suspect substances which Sherlock had spread across the kitchen table. About halfway through he decided he couldn't face the rest of the kitchen without proper tea, so ran to the corner shop, wondering if international rockstars ever did anything as tedious as run out of milk.

Then, tea brewed and kitchen cleaned, he began sorting through his washing and gathering some more clean clothes. He wondered what Lestrade would be doing. Chatting to other stars, watching a band John would have given his right arm to see in the past. And had now declined a VIP pass to, because he was too afraid to find his face plastered over the newspapers. He wondered what exactly he thought he was doing. Wondered what Lestrade was doing.

Was he just a convenient shag? It didn't seem like it, but he'd read the same gossip pages as everyone else had. Celebrities lived by different rules. Who could blame them, when they could pick any partner they wanted? And why on Earth pick him?

His thoughts were still swirling in his head when his mobile began to ring in his pocket. He wasn't even aware of the smile that appeared on his face as he read the display.

'Lestrade'.

"Hi," he answered.

"Hey," Lestrade's voice was hard to hear, a background of music and other people loud in John's ear. "This is pretty crap – everyone just out to get pissed and push themselves on all the right faces in the industry. I'm going to get back to yours, if that's okay?"

"Yeah, of course, yes. I'm here," John smiled.

There was a pause, then Lestrade spoke in an even lower voice, and John had to strain to hear.

"Miss you. Wish you were here."

John felt something deep in his chest tighten as he smiled.

"Yeah, miss you too."

"See you in a bit, then."

When Lestrade hung up John knew he was still grinning like an idiot. Sherlock glanced at him, huffed out a breath and slumped even further down in the sofa.

About half an hour later the doorbell rang and John grabbed his bag, glanced at Sherlock, debating what to say, but in the end decided on nothing. Sherlock looked absorbed in whatever he was reading on the internet, but raised a hand in a half-wave.

 

John opened the door, expecting to see Lestrade's driver. Instead Lestrade stood there, collar of his jacket turned up against the weather. There was no car in sight.

"What…you didn't get here on the tube, did you?" John beckoned him inside, dropping his bag back at the bottom of the stairs.

Lestrade grinned, pushing a hand through his hair, knocking off water droplets and making it stand in soft spikes. "I am allowed out on my own. Sometimes."

"But...I mean, don't people recognise you? Bother you?" He took Lestrade's coat and shook it before hanging it at the bottom of the stairs.

"People stare. Not many actually say anything. Like…if they actually spoke to you, you'd disappear in a puff of smoke. And they're usually nice - polite. I don't do it often because - and this probably sounds stupid - people don't let me. It's all cars and cabs and being driven here and there and if you suggest just hopping on the bus they fall over themselves not to let you."

John grinned. "Point taken. You're free to get public transport whenever you want, as far as I'm concerned. So...do you want a coffee? Tea? Or just...I don't know."

"Tea, thanks," Lestrade smiled. "This whole place yours and Sherlock's, is it?" He looked around at the heavily patterned wallpaper and slightly shabby decor.

"Oh, no. Mrs Hudson, our landlady, is down here," John pointed to her front door. "And we're the top two floors."

Lestrade nodded. "Nice. Must cost a fortune to live in central London nowadays. I used to have a bedsit south of the river, when we were starting out. It was a shit hole."

"Sherlock did Mrs Hudson a...well, a favour, I suppose, so we get it cheap," John answered. "She adores him. Like he's a son or something."

Lestrade's hand found John's shoulder, settling there, a reassuring weight, and John led the way up the stairs. He knew their flat was a far cry from Lestrade's luxurious house, but he liked it - barring the odd horrific stench or dismembered body part, courtesy of Sherlock's experiments.

He led the way into the sitting room, where Sherlock was lying on his back on the sofa, eyes closed, clad only in his tatty dressing gown, tied around his waist, and faded pyjama bottoms.

"Don't mind him," John gestured. "He's being irritating at the moment, because he hasn't solved your case yet."

Lestrade's eyebrows rose slightly, but he nodded, and turned away, following John into the kitchen.

John made them both tea, and smiled as Lestrade leant back against the worktop, hands cradling the hot mug.

"Tomorrow," Lestrade started. "There's an award thing. We're playing. I thought…well, if you come, it'll sort of take all day. I'm afraid it'll mainly be really boring. Sounds checks, rehearsals, lots of waiting around all day, then the real thing in the evening. But…well, it'd be nice, if you were there."

"You…you mean, 'we', you mean…The Rox? You're playing?"

Lestrade nodded, blowing to cool his tea.

"I…you couldn't stop me if you tried! I mean, a chance to see you all play? That would just be amazing."

"Wait until you've been there for hours on end – you might change your mind," Lestrade smiled. "It really is unimaginably boring. But will undoubtedly be better with you there. And at least I get my own dressing room these days."

"Oh, really?" John smiled mischievously and stepped closer, glad when Lestrade moved one hand from his mug to rest on John's hip, spreading his legs slightly so John could stand between them.

"Really," Lestrade laughed. "Which doesn't really equal much privacy, I'm afraid. Just…" he shook his head, smiling. "Anyway, yes, be lovely if you were there. Just…bring a book, or something."

"You forget," John said, moving in and pressing a kiss on Lestrade's lips. "That you might be bored by all that sort of thing, but I've never seen a rehearsal, or any of that. I'll probably find it fascinating."

Lestrade's fingers had somehow found their way up under John's shirt, and a thumb was now gently stroking his bare skin. "Mmm. Well, I'll get you an All Areas pass. Won't be a problem."

 

John couldn't wipe the smile off his face, especially when Lestrade's calloused fingers found his, holding on loosely.

 

The next morning, only a few scant hours since they’d fallen into bed, John found himself wishing he'd let Lestrade go to the rehearsal on his own. He woke abruptly to the shrill alarm and watched as Lestrade flung an arm out, knocking it off the bedside table and then swearing when it didn't silence.

He lifted his head to see Lestrade's naked buttocks on full display as he tried to reach onto the floor for the escaped clock. He couldn't help but roll over and gently press his teeth into the smooth skin in a mock-bite.

"Ge'off, bastard," Lestrade grumbled, finally shutting the alarm up and trying to haul his upper body back into the bed.

John grabbed him and helped, pulling him into a hug. "Early," John managed to croak.

"Mmm." Lestrade settled more comfortably, the backs of his fingers stroking down John's stomach. "Car won't be here for a bit. Just takes me a while to get going these days."

John slid his hand over Lestrade's hip and found his half-hard cock. "Hmm, seem to be getting going okay to me."

"What do you expect, biting my arse! Certain bits of my body find it hard…more difficult, I mean, than others. As a doctor you're probably duty bound to give me a hand, right? I mean…some relief." Lestrade grinned widely and John rolled on top of him, pressing their bodies together from belly to toes.

"Yeah. First, though, to determine an appropriate course of treatment, I'm going to have to do a full examination." He swiped his finger over Lestrade's lips. "Open wide."

Lestrade opened his mouth slightly and John moved in for a kiss. When he finally broke away he nodded approvingly. "Mmm, that all seems fine. Now…ears…"

His tongue flicked over the earrings and Lestrade tried to squirm away, laughing. "Can assure you, the only thing that's in need of examination is further south, Doc. It…throbs. Almost aches. "

"Perhaps I should recommend absolute rest, then," John shifted away. “Especially as you have a busy day ahead.”

Lestrade groaned. “Cruel, John. Very cruel. Thought you doctors were meant to be all caring.”

“Caring is about your long term health, not curing your blue balls now to the detriment of your...performance later. Come on, I’ll sort out your hands. And pack a kit, if you’ll be playing a lot. That way we can try and treat you on the go.”

 

A few hours later, John was walking around, eyes wide, taking in every part of the venue.

People rushed about in the large open space in front of the stage, wheeling huge stacks of chairs and tables. Others hauled cages which seemed to be full of tablecloths and glasses.

Lestrade walked confidently through the mayhem, carrying his guitar case and two suit-holders, refusing John’s offer of help.

John cautiously held onto the large laminated passes which now hung around his neck, ready for someone to step forward at any moment, and ask him what he thought he was doing there.

He stuck close to Lestrade, and smiled politely and shook hands whenever Lestrade stopped to introduce him to someone.

Finally they reached a shabby door, with a laminated sheet of A4 stuck to it. It read ‘Lestrade - The Rox’.

“See, it’s a life of glamour, being a musician,” Lestrade smiled, flicking the sign.

John smiled, then followed Lestrade into the room.

There was garish wallpaper on one wall, peeling slightly. An IKEA sofa sat underneath it, with a small utilitarian table. Then there was a desk and a mirror, with a spotlight pointed at it.

“I see what you mean,” he said, looking around as Lestrade propped his guitar up in the corner.

During the course of the next hour there was a constant stream of people visiting them, from floor managers to PR, executive producers to a girl bringing them mineral water and a fruit bowl.

Lestrade seemed relaxed, chatting, kissing cheeks, shaking hands, and introducing John - without mentioning any role he might play - to anyone who showed an interest.

“Sorry,” he apologised, once someone from publicity had visited, leaving a large stack of leaflets for Lestrade to sign. “It’s pretty boring, and not very relaxing.”

“It’s...fascinating,” John smiled. “And are you seriously going to autograph all of those?”

Lestrade smiled ruefully. “Yup. Of course...would be easier if you rubbed by hands first.” He widened his eyes, reminding John of a begging puppy.

John grinned despite himself, and sat on one end of the sofa, holding out his hands to take Lestrade’s.

For the next five minutes he gently worked over the joints, Lestrade occasionally giving a satisfied groan.

“Shh,” he giggled. “Anyone listening outside will think we’re...up to something.”

“Christ, they’re probably used to it,” Lestrade smiled. “This is lovely. Writing’s worse than playing. At least playing I keep my hands moving. Doing this stuff...just all locks up.”

“Mmm, I can’t imagine it’s very good for you. Still, I can do this as many times as you want.”

Lestrade smiled widely. “Oooh, Doc, you’re a glutton for punishment. You could do this all day long ‘s far as I’m concerned.”

John stopped. “Well you better get on with autographing. Got to earn your rewards.”

Lestrade sighed and sat cross-legged on the small sofa, the pile on his knee, and began scrawling in thick marker pen, flicking each piece of glossy paper off onto the sofa as he finished.

The leaflets scattered as they hit the cushions, but John carefully pushed them into some sort of order.

Before Lestrade had got through half the pile there was a knock on the door, but instead of waiting for a response, the door flew open, admitting a man with short, spiky, bleached hair.

“‘Stradey!” he shouted, flinging his arms out.

Lestrade grinned, jumping off the sofa and walking into the hug. “Rick, how are you you old bastard?”

“You know, older no wiser. How’s the fuckin’ sing-song going on? Heard you’ve got some nutter knocking off people. That’s fucking insane, Stradey.”

“Yeah, it’s...well, police’ll find him soon. You just get here? We’re on for sound check at one.”

“Yeah, no one else here yet? Oh...” he stopped as he saw John.

“Hi,” John said, standing and holding his hand out. Trying desperately to act as if he was a cool, calm, collected friend of Lestrade’s, not an excited fan.

“Rick, this is John, he’s...a friend. Giving me a hand during all this stuff with the show.”

“Friend. Right.” Rick raised an eyebrow at Lestrade.

“Don’t give me that, Rick. So, anything you need? I’ll bring these through for you to scrawl on in a bit,” he gestured to the stack of leaflets he’d been autographing.

“Nah mate. I’m set. Nice to meet you, John. Don’t wear the old man out before he’s got to get on stage, right?”

“I...uh...” John glanced at Lestrade, trying to read his expression. “I’m sure I won’t.”

“Piss off, Rick,” Lestrade smiled, moving to herd Rick out of the room and close the door behind him.

“Sorry, he’s...well. An arsehole when he wants to be.”

“No problem. It’s, honestly, exciting to be here, and meet everyone.”

“Ah, shit, I should have...sorry, it’s hard to remember you’re... Well, a fan, too, you know? I mean...this is all coming out wrong.” Lestrade smiled.

“I’d honestly prefer it if we could at least pretend I’m just really cool about it all,” John grinned back. “Although I can’t promise to act very cool when you guys are on stage, and you’re singing...but I’ll just assume no one will be watching me then, and all eyes will be firmly on you.”

“Hmm. Well I’ll still be watching you.” Lestrade took John’s hand and collapsed back on the sofa, grabbing the leaflets once more.

 

A few more people came and went, including a man who John assumed was The Rox’s chief roadie, by the conversation Lestrade had with him.

Another knock on the door sounded and a woman peered around it. Lestrade jumped up again. “Viv! How are you?” Lestrade wrapped her in a hug as she stepped into the room smiling.

John guessed that if this was the right Viv, Freddy wouldn’t be too far behind. He took a deep breath, knowing he was in for more teasing from one of his idols for his presence in Lestrade’s dressing room.

Lestrade and Viv fell into conversation - mainly about the murders - then two teenage girls entered the room and Lestrade leant down to give both of them a hug, too.

“Mum, Dad’s moaning about his socks you packed,” one of them said, sounding bored. Then she noticed John. “Hello. Are you Greg’s boyfriend?”

John’s eyes widened. “I...uh...I....”

“Ana, don’t be so rude!” Viv scolded, but smiled and winked at John as if she thought exactly the same thing.

Lestrade stepped in. “Nosey, Anastasia. This is John, he’s a friend.”

“Not being nosey, Dad said you had a new boyfriend. And it’s Ana, no one calls me Anastasia.”

“Well your Dad’s...bloody nosey too. John’s a doctor. And he’s part of the team with the police, helping find out who’s killing the dancers from the show.”

“Oh,” Ana seemed to look John up and down with a new respect. “Nice to meet you, John. It totally sucks that someone’s killing people. I hope you find them soon.”

John nodded. “We all do. Nice to meet you too.”

“Come on, Mum, or we’ll never get round everywhere,” the other teenager whined.

Viv rolled her eyes. “The pull of Oxford Street is strong,” she smiled. “And they want to go to Westfield too, now. You’d think clothes didn’t exist outside London.”

“Not cool ones!” the girls answered, almost simultaneously.

Lestrade laughed. “It’s fine, go on. Christ knows it’s dull around here.”

 

Once the dressing room had emptied Lestrade turned to John. “I just need to talk to Freddy, then check the staging - I’ll be back in a minute.”

John was left alone, listening to the footsteps of people passing outside the door, the occasional thump and clank of noises transmitted through the building, and contemplating how, in a few short weeks, his life had led to him being in the middle of an awards ceremony.

He looked at the hanging rail that stood, slightly drunkenly, in the corner, and wondering if he dared put any burden on it. He decided it was best if the suits came out of their carriers and set about undoing the bags.

The suit was gorgeous. A very dark grey, fine material that felt luxurious to the touch, and with a lining of deep purple. The shirt which was inside it was plain black. He hung them carefully before reaching into the next bag and finding a soft leather waistcoat, a black sleeveless t-shirt and torn jeans. He smiled at the contrast, as the two outfits hung side by side.

By the time Lestrade returned, John had made himself comfortable, eating an apple and reading through one of the newspapers that had been left with them.

“You okay?” Lestrade asked, perching on the arm of the sofa next to him. “Sorry, I know it’s boring. Sound check soon though.”

“It’s fine, honestly,” John assured.

“Want to come and meet the guys? And...just ignore them, if they, you know, suggest things about us. None of their business, even if they think it is.”

“Even if they’re right?” John grinned.

Lestrade seemed to freeze for a split second. “Yeah...shit. Do you...I can just tell them. Shall I? I mean...should I? It’s not...I’m not trying to pretend you’re not or anything. But...Sorry, I’m being a colossal arsehole, aren’t I?”

John laughed. “No, not really. It is a bit...odd. I mean, they are your friends, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, shit, I’m just...too used to keeping secrets. I didn’t even think how it would make you feel. Come on, come and meet them.”

Lestrade walked a little further down the hall, as John tried desperately to ignore the names of other famous musicians stuck onto various doors, not quite believing that he was in the same building as some of them.

They entered a room almost identical to Lestrade’s, except with a different, more garish, wallpaper design on one wall.

“Guys - Rick, Freddy, James, this is John. And yes, before you two start, we are seeing each other. John, this is Freddy and James, our drummer.”

John shook hands with Freddy and James as Rick whooped and slapped Lestrade on the back. “Knew it, you sly old bastard! Knew you were shagging someone younger and better looking again.” He turned to John, grinning. “You get tired of the old man, you can keep my bed warm anytime. I’ll show you what you’re missing.”

Lestrade sighed. “Sorry. Rick gets confused. Rick, we say you ARE a giant cock, not that you’ve got one.”

Rick flicked his middle finger at Lestrade before taking a swig of beer.

James looked slightly awkward, and John guessed it must be very strange, stepping into a dead man’s shoes in the band.

They chatted for a while, mainly about staging and who was doing what when the award was given. More people arrived in the room, one of whom Lestrade grabbed a second to introduce to John as Shona, his PA, and the conversations continued.

Finally a runner appeared at the door, looking slightly surprised at the packed room.

“Um, The Rox? Due up for sound check in five minutes, please. We’re tight on our schedule, so if you could be on time...”

John couldn’t help but smile widely, knowing he was about to have a dream come true.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Small Hobbit. All mistakes which remain are my own.
> 
> Really sorry for the hiatus. Glad it wasn't quite 2 years. RL just got in the way for a while. I will try not to let that happen again. Thank you for your patience.

“Right,” Lestrade turned and pointed at John. “You, don’t laugh, right?”

John frowned, wondering if he was about to witness some sort of secret pre-performance ritual.

Lestrade took a deep breath in, then hissed as he breathed out, and John watched as the others all stood, loosening their necks and shoulders, following his lead.

The noises were quite funny - a variety of hissing, huffing, vowel sounds, humming, and finally some scales - John noticed Lestrade had by far the biggest range. He tried to keep a straight face as the four grown men began to make noises like police sirens, but completely failed to stop silent giggles overtaking him when the siren noises were mixed with the sound of rolling ‘r’s.

Finally Lestrade began massaging his jaw, and rolling his shoulders, before turning to John and holding out his hands. “You can pay me back for the laughing by doing my hands,” he said, a grin on his face.

“Getting another manicure, Greg?” Freddy called out.

“Just jealous, Fred, I know,” Lestrade answered, without turning around.

“The Rox, one minute call,” a disembodied voice shouted through the door.

John quickly massaged the joints he knew were the worst on Lestrade’s hands, hoping it would be enough.

 

As they walked back into the main auditorium it felt even bigger to John - the staff were still working, setting tables and putting out chairs, but the noise seemed oddly deadened by the vast space.

“Find yourself somewhere to sit or something,” Lestrade said. “And...well, I hope you enjoy it.” He squeezed John’s hand before letting go and following one of the staff toward the stage.

John walked through the maze of tables and tried to stay out of everyone’s way, not even wanting to sit down, in case he disturbed the settings.

The band seemed to meander onto the stage, all heading toward their instruments. John smiled as Lestrade swung his arms around, approaching a guitar on a stand.

A man dressed in black approached Lestrade and had a quick chat as he settled the guitar strap around himself. Someone else moved forward and passed a small black box to him. Lestrade fiddled with various wires and pushed something in each ear, checking the wires before dropping the box down the back of his shirt and tucking it into his back pocket. The man who had passed it to him then seemed to adjust something on it, before saying something else to Lestrade and running off the stage.

Then Lestrade walked forward, then adjusted the microphone slightly, before turning to watch the rest of the band as they settled.

 

John could feel the excitement building within himself. He couldn’t stop smiling, as Lestrade seemed to relax into himself.

On the drums, James played a short flurry, without any amplification - the sound was tiny within the space. Then Lestrade stepped forward, hitting something on the floor with his foot, and as his hand moved across the strings a wall of noise washed over John - the vibrations of sound hitting him in the chest. He hadn’t thought he could smile any wider - but he managed it, as Lestrade’s playing filled the space. James joined in on the drums, and then the keyboard and bass guitar also joined in, and John felt like he could explode with the joy of seeing them all, right in front of him, playing the very distinctive intro to one of their songs.

The sounds abruptly faded, and there was a small flurry of activity as everyone made tiny adjustments to their equipment, and someone ran on to talk to Lestrade again.

Then Lestrade turned, and John could barely hear him as he spoke to the others, but he could see as he waved his arm in a countdown, plectrum grasped between his fingers, turning just as his own guitar part kicked in.

It made John somehow proud that lots of the youngsters working in the space stopped and looked as the music blared out. He knew most of them wouldn’t have born when The Rox were at the height of their fame. He couldn’t take his eyes off Lestrade though, when he moved to the microphone, taking a deep breath, and launched into the song.

He wanted to hug himself, jump up and down with joy, as the music kept going. He occasionally glanced at groups of people who had gathered, all focus now on the stage, wanting to go over and say ‘That’s my man - isn’t he amazing?’. But instead he finally allowed himself one luxury - pulling out his phone and snapping a photograph of the whole stage, then one of Lestrade, mouth open, eyes closed, as he held a note at the end of one verse.

 

As the song ended a small smattering of applause broke out, and Lestrade acknowledged it with a small wave, before walking back to speak to James, then Rick.

People rushed about on the stage, some with rolls of tape, marking the floor, others adjusting equipment and a few talking to the musicians.

Lestrade finally unwound himself from the wires, and rested his guitar back on its stand. He shook hands with the man who John thought might be some sort of director, and moved around to slap James on the back.

Then he looked out into the space, spotting John and grinning. He began heading towards John, down the shiny steps that led from the dining area to the stage. John began to walk towards him, but then he saw the moment Lestrade’s attention was caught by something else.

“I’ve just got to...” Lestrade started, before darting off between the tables, breaking into a run as he got closer to the entrance, where the door was just swinging closed.

John stood and stared, before slowly walking in the same direction, not knowing what else to do.

 

When he got to the corridor outside he glanced both ways, spotting Lestrade, who had his arms wrapped around a woman, holding her tight, obviously saying something into her ear.

He stamped down the flare of jealousy in his chest and walked towards them both, feeling awkward, but wanting to know what was going on, and not to lose Lestrade in the maze of the building.

Lestrade broke his hold on her, kissing her forehead before saying a final few words, squeezing her shoulder and watching her walk away.

John stopped by his side, silently awaiting an explanation, whilst also knowing it was probably none of his business.

Lestrade took a deep breath and blew it out. "That's Della. Tommy's eldest. Haven't seen her since the funeral. She hasn't seen us play without him. Bit...I don't know. Must seem shit, us carrying on, without her Dad, like he was never here."

John immediately felt a flood of sympathy for the young woman.

"You're not though - not really. Is she...why did she come? I mean, did she want to see you all?"

Lestrade looked confused for a second, then slightly guilty. "Ah...did I ever tell you why we're here?"

John frowned. "To play, I assumed."

"Yeah, that too, but we don't often do this sort of gig. We're getting a bloody Lifetime Achievement award. Clearly worried we haven't had one and we might not last much longer. So she's here on behalf of Tommy."

"A...fucking hell! That's amazing. I mean, well, yeah, that's brilliant. God, no one deserves that more than you. Why didn't you tell me?"

“Forgot I suppose?” Lestrade looked awkward. “We’ve known for ages - they had to tell us or we wouldn't have played, I don't think." 

"Because it's too soon?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Yeah. Just...don't know quite what we're doing now."

“You...I mean, I do understand it isn’t the same. But you sounded great, just then. It’s a privilege, to be here, hearing you play.” A silence stretched. “I’m sorry, not to be hearing you with Tommy too. But...well, I’ve lost friends, too. I’ve lost...maybe not as close as you two, but...life has to go on, Greg.”

Lestrade glanced around - a few people were already staring at them, John noticed.

“Dressing room?” Lestrade said.

John nodded, and they walked back through the main arena, he noticed another band were setting up on the stage, but finding he didn’t care enough to work out who it was.

 

As soon as they were safely behind closed doors, Lestrade wrapped John in a strong hug, and they stood together, holding each other, for long silent minutes.

“I don’t…want to be out there without him,” Lestrade finally said quietly. “This should be for all of us.”

John finally struggled free from Lestrade’s grip, and tried to look him in the eye, but Lestrade refused to look up.

“It is for all of you. You think a single person out there watching won’t know that this is for the whole band, and that every one of you wishes Tommy was there with you?”

Lestrade sighed, his breath catching.

“I…I don’t know if I ever want to be out there without him. I…I don’t know if I want to keep going.”

John felt his grip on Lestrade’s arm tighten, almost involuntarily.

Lestrade finally looked him in the eye. “Don’t…shit, don’t tell anyone, I mean, the guys. I haven’t…told anyone. I can’t, I mean, I can’t tell them.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything,” John let his hands slide down Lestrade’s arm, squeezing his hand. “It’s understandable, you know. And…not right now, but you should talk to them. You never know, they might be feeling the same.”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. We can’t…we can’t do anything now, not with the show so close to opening. Not…we just can’t.”

“Hey, hey, come and sit down.” John steered Lestrade to the sofa. “There’s no need to rush anything. I mean…when do you have another gig?”

Lestrade shrugged. “We haven’t…nothing much, not all of us. I’ve got to do publicity, but…it’s not the band, it’s just each of us, separately. We were going to start planning another tour, when…”

“Well then, you don’t have to worry. Not now. You can think about it, talk to Freddy, maybe. He seems like he might understand.”

Lestrade nodded.

“But for tonight…go out there, get that award, for all of you, for Tommy.”

John was dragged into another hug, but he could feel there was less tension in the muscles across Lestrade’s shoulders now. He stroked a hand up and down Lestrade’s back.

“Just…you’ve got time. You can all talk it out. You’ll be okay, whatever you all decide.”

“I know. I…thanks. Sometimes…sometimes I just need someone to talk some sense into me. It’s been a long time, since I’ve been anything but part of the band. Seems a bit…terrifying, going back to being just me.”

 

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while - although all around them was far from silent. There was a constant stream of people passing by in the corridor, and the huge speaker system in the main hall was booming out music.

Then a knock on the door heralded the arrival of Freddy, holding a guitar case.

“All right? Wondered if you wanted to hear a few tunes. Been doing a bit of work, here and there. Good to get your thoughts.”

Lestrade visibly pulled himself together, a smile settling on his lips. “Sure thing, pull up a chair.”

John sat back and watched as Freddy pulled his guitar and a large notebook from the case, and settled the instrument on his lap, propping the book on the table.

It wasn’t long - as John knew it wouldn’t be - before Lestrade was reaching for his own guitar, and the men fell into a pattern of playing short snatches, over and over, both making notes on paper. Lestrade occasionally singing snatches, sometimes, words, sometimes just sounds.

John took some fruit to eat, sat back, and enjoyed his position of privilege, watching two legends at work.

 

As the ceremony drew closer, the activity in the building grew more and more frantic. John was glad that he was with Lestrade, who seemed to take it all in his stride.

Eventually Lestrade changed into a smart suit, dark grey, with a very dark shirt and a striking blue pocket square. He pushed a little gel through his hair, and John allowed himself to tweak the hair, and smooth his hands down the lines of the suit. He smiled at Lestrade. “You look amazing.”

“Look old. But thank you.” Lestrade didn’t meet his gaze.

“You don’t. And no one will think that. You get out there, enjoy it, enjoy that everyone out there will be pleased for you all.”

Lestrade gave a small smile. “Thanks. You’ll be okay with Viv? She knows backstage in these places like…well, better than all of us. She’ll make sure you get to see it all.”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. Just get out there and get that award.”

Lestrade nodded, pulling at his collar slightly, and taking a deep breath. “Right, yeah. See you in a bit.”

They walked down the corridor to find everyone else, and Viv immediately took John’s arm. “Now, I’ve bagged us a spot - in the wings, with a monitor, so we should be able to see it all.”

John smiled widely. “Sounds perfect. Greg told me you’d take care of me, make sure I didn’t get lost.”

The band was escorted off by some runners, and John was left alone in the dressing room with Viv.

 

“So…” Viv started, then grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to ask you your intentions towards Greg, you can stop looking like a cornered animal! I was just wondering how…well, how he’s been? He took the news about Tommy very hard, and now with this stuff and the musical…”

John relaxed slightly. “Yeah. Well…no, he’s still taking it pretty hard. I mean, he’s not…well, he’s functioning, day to day. But I think he’s a bit lost. Shaken, you know?”

Viv nodded. “I do. He’s always been very private, Greg. Tommy was the one who could…read him, get him to talk. But, well, as the band does less, they see each other less…it’s good, that he’s got someone to talk to, in you.”

“He, yes, well, early days for us. But perhaps it helps, not being anything to do with the band - the industry.”

“How did the two of you meet?” Viv asked, settling on the edge of the table.

John did his best to tell the basic story - glossing over the misunderstandings about his intentions, and doing a little more to explain Sherlock’s work, and Viv’s smile grew.

“I think it would do him good to get a place in London again, you know. Not rattling around that house on his own. I mean, it’s a lovely house, but…he was lonely. There was a time, just after the news about Tommy, when…I was very worried, that he might…do something.”

John swallowed, feeling his stomach sink. “He…really? Yeah, I can…Well, I think, he’s…moved away from that. I mean, he seems…”

Viv gave a small smile. “I think you came along at just the right moment. And speaking of right moments, we should go, to make sure we don’t miss anything.”

 

They made their way through the corridors, and then backstage, careful not to trip over huge bundles of cables or get in the way of people rushing about, talking into headsets.

“Here,” Viv tucked them into a corner, where they could see the stage and also a whole bank of monitors showing the feeds from the cameras. Two women and a man sat in front of the screens, all talking at once, John presumed directing the cameras and staff.

“Do you know who those people are?” John asked, pointing to the band on the stage.

“No idea! I can’t keep up. I’m afraid I’m not really into the music.”

“Oh, sorry, I just assumed,” John shrugged.

“Only the one band,” Viv winked. “Although Freddy seems to forget - he honestly didn’t think I’d want to see them get the award. I mean, as if! I’m fiercely proud of them all.”

“Yeah, no, I mean, Greg doesn’t seem to…think it’s anything. He seems surprised, when I’m enthusiastic about any of it.”

“Oh, that’s Greg for you,” Viv grinned. “Look, on the monitor.”

John smiled as he saw the band, seated at a table as if they’d been there all along, applauding the act now leaving the stage. Lestrade has his hands up in the air, clapping above his head, smiling, and obviously very aware of the camera, but not looking at it.

“Should be them next. I think…” Viv stopped and nudged John as she pointed to two people waiting to walk onto the stage, with the large golden award.

“Holy shit,” John said, his eyes wide, as he recognised the young woman, but couldn’t put a name to the face - he definitely recognised David Bowie though.

The host of the show announced them, and John turned to Viv. “That’s Adele? I…just can’t believe I’m here!”

“You do get used to it,” Viv grinned. “Well…some of it.”

John watched as the two walked across the glossy floor, and took their places centre stage. Adele was first to speak, reading confidently from the auto-cue John could now see, explaining the impact The Rox had had on her as her parents had played the music. Then Bowie took over, speaking from a more contemporary view point, about growing up, fighting The Rox for chart success - very different types of music, but both adored by their fans.

Then Adele introduced a sequence on the huge screens above the stage, showing clips from The Rox’s history - appearances on Top of the Pops, various other shows, huge stadium tours. John watched it all on the small monitors close to them, smiling as he recognised certain music videos or songs, as well as the changing look of the band - from scruffy punk, through big, shaggy haircuts, and finally into a neater, more groomed version, more like they were now.

And finally it was announced, the Lifetime Achievement Award. The cameras cut to the band, as Lestrade gestured for Freddy to lead the way to the stage, then Rick, before putting his hand on Della’s shoulder, and saying a few words to her. He walked behind them all, accepting handshakes, high fives and fist-bumps from various people at the tables they walked past.

The four of them walked up the steps, Freddy accepting the award and kissing cheeks with Adele before shaking Bowie’s hand. Rick followed, and then Lestrade kissed both of them on the cheeks, and was handed the award by Rick.

He took a moment, looking down at the metal in his hand, before looking up, glancing around the room.

John was torn between watching the monitors and watching Lestrade on the stage, about fifteen metres from where he stood.

As the applause faded, Lestrade leant forward slightly, to the microphone.

“I’m afraid I don’t really have words to thank you all for this,” he began. “Partly because it’s not just me that has to give my thanks. We’re all amazed - and touched - that we have been honoured with this award. I can assure you, that many years ago, when we were rehearsing using a borrowed drum kit and keyboard, in the village hall, we never dreamt it would come to this.

“Obviously, this is a time tinged with sadness, too, because there’s someone who maybe deserved this more than all of the rest of us, who is no longer with us. Tommy drove the band, he never let us give up. Sometimes I thought he was mad, but he wasn’t, he was passionate, and he saw something in us which I didn’t. He saw that we could succeed, if we tried. And he pushed us to that success. So here with us tonight is Della, Tommy’s daughter.”

The crowd erupted in more applause and cheers, as Della was handed the award, and Lestrade kissed her on the cheek. She reached down and gripped his hand, as she took her place by the microphone.

“I tried to think of what my Dad would have said about this. But all I could imagine was him saying ‘About bloody time!’.” The audience laughed, and Della gave a small smile. “Seriously, though, he would have been proud. And I’m proud, to be here tonight. So thank you all, from me and Dad.”

She turned away, and Lestrade was immediately there, an arm gently around her.

He stepped forward once more, taking the award back, and raising it above his head.

“To Tommy Dillon!” he said loudly, and once again the audience burst into applause, many of them standing up.

John smiled as the band headed towards them, all waving to the crowd as they did so.

 

Lestrade almost walked past them, but John touched his arm and fell into step beside him.

“Congratulations,” he smiled.

“Thanks.” Lestrade looked down to the award in his hand, then passed it over to John to hold, and John grinned as he read the engraved plate on it.

“It’s just…you deserve it, all of you, so much.”

Lestrade shrugged and turned back to the others. “See you in fifteen. Fred, want to take the award?”

“You think I can wrestle it away from John?” Freddy laughed. “Nah, you’re all right. See you in fifteen. Get the doc to feel you up - I mean, warm you up, yeah?”

Lestrade made a half hearted attempt to trip Freddy up, but smiled at John. “You’re just jealous, Fred,” he called. “And I can’t blame you.”

 

Back in the dressing room Lestrade began stripping out of his suit before John had even closed the door.

“Fast turnaround,” Lestrade said, as he threw his shirt onto the sofa, reaching for his belt buckle. “If you can do my hands, that’d be great.”

“Of course,” John put the award on the table, and grabbed his bag, setting out a bottle of oil and two clean towels.

 

Lestrade pulled on jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt, and slid a black cuff onto his right arm. As he took a seat to pull on his boots, John sat down too, pouring oil into his hand and warming it, before sliding his own fingers through it.

“Come on then.” He reached for Lestrade’s hand.

“I’ve got to…do the voice, too,” Lestrade said. “So…you know, try not to laugh so hard you fall off your chair.”

As John worked, and Lestrade made a variety of noises to warm up his voice, there was a hard knock on the door.

“The Rox, five minutes!” a voice shouted from the other side.

“How are we doing, Doc?” Lestrade asked, one leg jiggling with what John assumed was nervous energy.

“Fine. Nearly there. How do you feel?”

“Yeah, fine,” Lestrade made a fist with the hand John had finished with. “All good. You okay with Viv again?”

“Of course.”

There was another knock on the door, and Freddy stuck his head around it. “Got to put him down now, Doc. Show’s on.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, apologies for the delay in posting. Thank you for all the kudos and comments received - they are always welcome!
> 
> Beta'd by Small Hobbit. All mistakes remaining are my own.

The journey to the wings of the stage was full of energy now. The band all clearly full of adrenalin and ready to put on a show.

Lestrade was stuffing his earpieces in, checking the cables, then bouncing on the balls of his feet, swinging his arms around.

“Ready guys?” he asked, and everyone nodded their agreement.

John realised the presenters were on a smaller area at the side of the main stage now, and as one of the floor managers ran over to the band, Lestrade turned to John.

“I hope you enjoy it,” he said, and reached over to very briefly squeeze John’s arm.

Then they were all gone, following the staff, into the darkness of the main stage. John watched as Lestrade headed for his microphone and guitar, swinging the guitar up, adjusting it, then checking the microphone height, quick movements, all obviously familiar.

John glanced at the audience, to see that most of them were now focussing on the band, not the presenters. He smiled, pride welling up inside him once more.

He felt someone take his arm, and Viv grinned at him. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Seeing them…well, do what they do.”

John nodded, glad he was with someone who understood.

The presenters seemed to be wrapping up the segment, and one of them turned toward the band, the lights on the main stage coming on, bathing the band in light.

Camera operators rushed around, and various people, all dressed in black, all with headsets on, moved and ran, carrying bunches of cables and guiding some of the camera people to new spots in the audience.

John heard the band being introduced, and felt pride swell in his chest as the room erupted with cheers.

 

Then Lestrade moved to the microphone.

“Thank you, thank you all.”

The drumbeat kicked in, quickly answered by a mournful sound of a distorted guitar chord.

The drumbeat answered back, but it was almost lost to John’s ears by the thunderous applause from the audience as they recognised one of The Rox’s most famous hits, ‘Over and Down’. The guitars and drums duelled, the flurries on the drums more elaborate, the lone guitar now joined by the bass, giving a deeper, dirtier sound.

There was the moment of silence that everyone was expecting, before Lestrade began singing, his voice low, husky, and completely filling the room, as the instruments all stayed silent.

Then the keyboard joined in, softly at first, but growing, the drums returned, no longer fighting the guitars and the song continued, each chorus a crescendo.

On the monitors John could see the tendons on Lestrade’s neck standing out as he held the long notes, the muscles in his biceps moving under the skin as he worked his guitar.

Finally the last verse of the song was softer, the instruments each slower, calmer, before dropping off altogether, leaving just Lestrade’s voice to hold the final notes.

The room erupted once more, but the band didn’t acknowledge it, moving directly into another song, another classic, but more recent.

John watched as Freddy and Lestrade moved to stand together, playing a complex piece on the guitars, both smiling as it came to an end, and Lestrade moving briskly back to his microphone to begin the vocals.

John could virtually sing along, and smiled at the energy the whole band were putting in to playing, Lestrade bouncing on his toes whenever he wasn’t singing, occasionally wiping his face with the large sweatband on his wrist in-between playing.

As the song ended on a long chord and a drum flurry the audience rose to their feet, applause and shouts drowning the final reverb.

“Thank you all, thank you very much,” Lestrade shouted. “Ladies and Gents, please give it up for James on the drums, doing us all proud. And for Tommy, who will live on through the music.”

The crowd went absolutely wild, as the band all waved, putting down their instruments and heading back to the wings, as the presenters tried to regain control of the ceremony.

Lestrade almost walked straight into John’s arms, before stopping himself at the last moment, glancing around at the busy staff.

He pulled up the front of his top and dried the beads of sweat from his face, smiling at John instead.

“Absolutely fantastic,” John grinned. “Amazing.”

Lestrade shrugged, then turned as Freddy touched his shoulder, hugging him, shaking hands with James and slapping Rick on the back.

As he reached up to wipe more sweat from his face John could see his hand shaking.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Lestrade looked surprised. “Yeah, yeah, just…adrenalin, emotion, you know. Should probably get some ice though, right?”

“You should,” John agreed. “Do you have to do anything else now?”

They dodged a few hurrying staff, and finally made it to the corridor before Lestrade could answer.

“I, ah, have to go and face the cameras,” he said, sounding apologetic. “The money men for the show will already be fuming that we didn’t do a big entrance. So…well, we’ll all get out there, with the award. Get the publicity machine working, stop them fretting about their wallets.”

 

Once they were back in the dressing room Lestrade sank onto the sofa, gesturing at the table. “Should be ice in that bucket. I asked for some earlier.”

John prepared two ice packs and settled them onto Lestrade’s hands.

“Anything else you need?” he asked, sitting on the arm of the sofa.

Lestrade shook his head, and John could see he was still shaking slightly.

“Warm enough?”

“I’m fine.”

John frowned slightly. “So it won’t help if I do this?” He moved over, wrapping his arm around Lestrade’s shoulders, allowing the other hand to rest on Lestrade’s forearm.

Lestrade grinned and adjusted his position, careful not to dislodge the ice packs, until he was leaning on John. “Yeah, all right, Doc, I should trust your diagnosis.”

“So what do you have to do now? Talk to people?” John asked.

“Yeah, show off the award, do a bit of chatting to journos, get our picture taken a million times. Anything that’ll get column inches for the show, because that’s what the backers want. Hell, what we all want. I want it to work, want those performers to feel proud. After everything that’s happened… failure would make it that bit worse, wouldn’t it? Like it really had all been for nothing.”

John pressed a kiss into Lestrade’s hair.

Once his hands had been iced sufficiently, John helped Lestrade clean up, then get dressed back into his suit.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you in Viv’s hands again…I mean, just for now. One day, maybe…”

John adjusted Lestrade’s collar and smiled. “It’s fine. I understand. I…I don’t think I’m ready, yet, to see myself on the celebrity pages.”

Lestrade smiled. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

 

Once Lestrade and the band had left John packed away all his things, finding a nearby toilet to empty out the ice packs, and when he returned Viv was there, a bag slung over her shoulder.

“Back to our hotel? Get a bottle on the go?” Viv grinned conspiratorially.

“Um, sure if…”

“I told Freddy we’d be there. Can’t hang around this sad place all night. Besides, they’ll want to get everything cleaned out. I swear those boys don’t think about what happens when they’re not here.”

“Oh, right, fine, yes,” John smiled. “I think Greg finds it…hard, to remember that I don’t know how all this really works, yet. What about his things? His guitar?”

“Don’t worry, Shona will pick up after him,” Viv smiled. “You know, he’s never brought anyone else to a do like this. Even when we’ve thought, perhaps, he was getting serious about someone. He clearly trusts you.”

“You…well, I hope so,” John said. “We’ve had a few…moments, but honestly, he’s just so…I don’t know how to put it. It’s easy to forget, when it’s just the two of us, that he’s this world famous idol, and I’m just…well, me.”

“Well you just being you is clearly someone who means a lot to Greg,” Viv led the way out, hailing a cab with ease, ignoring the crowds who were still gathered around the main entrance. No one paid them any attention, past a quick glance to check they weren’t escaping celebrities.

“Does he play for you?” Viv asked.

“Does he ever put the guitar down?” John countered. “Yeah, he’s played a lot. Even some new things he’s writing.”

“Well that definitely shows he trusts you. He’s very…shy when it comes to his music. Which you wouldn’t believe, seeing them up on the stage.”

“Yeah…it’s…I don’t know, it’s not like any other relationship I’ve ever been in. I mean, in some ways it feels like we’ve moved pretty fast. And in others…like now, when neither of us want to be pictured together, in case it makes it into the press, well, it feels very…fragile.”

Viv reached over and squeezed his hand. “if you can put up with the intrusions, with the little bits of madness that are part of their lives, then I can assure you that you'll find he's worth it. And you will be so good for him.”

 

Once at the hotel, Viv ordered a bottle of wine and an ice bucket, then led the way to the suite that she and her family were in. John followed, unsure exactly what to do with himself. He had expected they’d be drinking in the bar, although he now saw that could end badly, once Freddy and Greg and the others arrived back.

The girls were already lying across their beds, snacks and drinks spread around them, watching TV. Viv checked on them briefly, then settled on the sofa and opened the wine.

They chatted about various things - Viv taking an interest in John’s past, and his work with Sherlock, while John learned that Viv was also a Doctor - of the academic kind, although she admitted that she had swapped some of the scholarly work for running her own business from their home in the sun.

 

Finally, nearly two hours later, a commotion in the corridor heralded the arrival of the band. Freddy almost fell through the door, Lestrade behind him, laughing as they clung to each other. James and Rick were behind them, along with a few other people, some of whom John recognised.

“Hey,” Lestrade made his way to John, weaving slightly, and sat on the arm of the sofa, next to him.

“Hey to you too. Good time, I take it?”

Lestrade shrugged. “We posed. We hugged. We looked happy. We talked up the musical, we remembered Tommy…then we escaped.”

“Managed a few drinks too, I gather,” John grinned.

“As did you!” Lestrade leant down and kissed John.

“Put ‘im down!” Rick called. “You poof.”

“Fuck off, Rick,” Lestrade replied, still smiling down at John. Then he yawned widely.

“You still partying?” John smiled. “Or are you done now?”

Lestrade looked slightly guilty. “Not exactly what you signed up for, right? Tucked up with a mug of cocoa early?”

“It’s the early hours of the morning, not ‘early’! And I didn’t sign up for any sort of ‘lifestyle’, just for you. I just wondered if you’d rather go back to mine, than get all the way over to your place.”

“Oh.” Lestrade sat up a bit. “Well…yeah, if it’s okay? I mean, I don’t want to…”

“It would be a pleasure. I didn’t know if the dogs would be okay?”

“Oh, yeah, they were getting fed and walked, they’ll be fine until the morning.” He stood and stretched, showing a strip of skin between his shirt and trousers as he did so. “Right, guys, John and I are off. Viv, you’ve been wonderful. Thanks for taking care of John.”

Viv waved a hand. “It was nothing. I enjoyed it.” She stood and gave John a hug. “I hope to see you again - the premiere, perhaps?”

“Oh, well, yes, probably?” John smiled. “And as Greg said - thank you. I wouldn’t have known what to do with myself without you.”

They said further goodbyes to everyone, and finally stepped out into the silent corridor. Lestrade pulled his phone out of his pocket, then looked at John. “Suppose…we could just get a cab, right? I mean, I don’t need to call a driver, do I?”

“You don’t,” John confirmed. “Unless you wanted to?”

Lestrade smiled. “You know, I don’t think I do.”

 

They only had to wait a few moments in the lobby of the hotel, as the doorman quickly hailed them a cab.

John noticed that Lestrade kept his head down as they crossed the pavement and climbed into the cab. He allowed John to give the address, but did pull out his wallet, ready to pay.

John thought about protesting, briefly, until his conversation with Harry came back to him. He sat back and kept his mouth shut, and when the cab pulled up he headed to open the door, letting Lestrade pay the cabbie off.

“Come on up. Want some tea?”

“Coffee?” Lestrade looked at John with an expression very much like one of his dogs when begging for food.

“Yeah, but don’t blame me if you don’t sleep tonight.”

John led the way upstairs, and was slightly surprised to find the flat empty - the only sign of Sherlock was a heap of papers on the coffee table and a pile of ropes and fabric scraps, along with some chemicals and petri-dishes on the kitchen table.

 

Once they had drunk their drinks, John led Lestrade to the bedroom, trying to swallow down the urge to apologise for the lack of luxury. He could see Lestrade was half asleep, as they moved around each other, shedding clothes and using the bathroom.

“Sorry,” Lestrade said, as they settled into bed. “I’m absolutely knackered.”

“No problem,” John leant in for a kiss, then settled his arm over Lestrade’s waist.

 

They were both asleep within minutes. And it wasn’t until the next morning that John awoke. The bed was empty, and as he rubbed his eyes he heard voices.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, looking around for some clothes. The voices were raised, both Sherlock’s and Lestrade’s, and he really needed to get downstairs before Sherlock said something so damaging that even John couldn’t fix it.

 

He almost ran into the kitchen to find Lestrade leaning against the worktop, holding a mug of coffee, as Sherlock paced around.

“You are the only link!” Sherlock was almost shouting. “You must know something!”

“I don’t! They turn up, they’re all good, but I didn’t choose them all! I have a team, people who help me. I don’t know anything about these kids outside their work.”

“This is ridiculous, how can you be so…” Sherlock saw John and stopped.

“Don’t get angry with Greg just because you haven’t figured it out,” John said. “And if you’re going to ask questions, do it nicely, right?”

Sherlock almost snorted. “Useless. He hasn’t observed a single useful fact.”

“I don’t…” Lestrade sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “I’ll try, right? But I just don’t know.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I apologise for the delay.
> 
> Beta read by Eloquar, all remaining mistakes are my own.

John tried to make conversation on the way back to Lestrade’s house, but Lestrade was largely monosyllabic, and John knew Sherlock’s words were getting to him.

“You know, he…he doesn’t understand, what it’s like to be, well, normal. He doesn’t get how other people don’t notice tiny details. He doesn’t mean to blame you.”

Lestrade snorted. “Right. Doesn’t mean to…just thinks it’s ridiculous I don’t already have this all figured out.”

“Like I said, he’s annoyed that he doesn’t have the answer. He’s used to being the genius, he’s not used to struggling. He thinks we’re all stupid - murderers included. He hates it when he can’t see the answer straight away. He hates being beaten.”

 

They arrived back at Lestrade’s to be mobbed by the dogs, and John was glad to see a little more life in lestrade as he fussed over them, scratching ears and tummies and talking to both the creatures as they bounded around, full of joy at seeing their master again.

“We’ll walk you in a bit,” Lestrade told them. “Go and run off some energy.” He opened the doors wide and watched as the dogs streaked off down the garden.

“I’ve just got to check the messages and stuff,” he said to John. “You okay to…you know, amuse yourself?”

John nodded, and watched as Lestrade headed for his office, unsure what to do with himself.

In the end, he followed the dogs outside, throwing a chewed-up old tennis ball for them, and wishing he could do something more constructive.

Finally, after far longer than he thought it could take anyone to listen to some messages and read emails, he wandered back into the house. He heard a familiar sound from the office, and leant in the doorway.

The show tunes he’d spent an evening listening to with Sherlock were playing, and Lestrade was leaning back in his chair, watching the computer screen, one arm hugged around himself, the other hand stroking his stubble as he watched.

Finally he stepped into the room. “Is it helping?”

Lestrade jumped. “Jee…sorry, I don’t know. Maybe? I think…some of the…the…the victims, I’ve helped. I mean, I’ve…given them, personally, direction, or help, or…” He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “But I’ve done that for lots of them. I mean, most of them are fine. I…it’s stupid, probably nothing. Let’s walk.”

John nodded, but filed away the information for later, to see if they could come up with a solid theory for Sherlock.

 

They walked for an hour or so, a lot of it in silence. But John decided he had to try and find out a little more about what Lestrade had said.

“So, you think perhaps whoever it is…has some sort of link to the theatre? If they know who you’ve been talking to?”

Lestrade dug his hands into his pockets. “Maybe.”

“Another cast member? Someone who’s…jealous? Is it worth looking at some of the more minor members? Understudies maybe?”

Lestrade blew out a breath. “Jesus. You think…Just can’t fucking believe anyone would do that. But that’s stupid, right? Who can ever believe why someone fucking murders someone else?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t often make sense, I’m afraid. Not to…normal people,” John shrugged.

Lestrade glanced at John with a small smile. “That why Sherlock’s so good at figuring them out?”

John opened his mouth, although he wasn’t sure why he was going to protest, but Lestrade held out a hand. “I didn’t mean that. Well…not like that.”

“But you have…you know, spoken to all the victims. Spoken, or…helped, or something?”

Lestrade nodded. “But like I said, not just them. And…where does that leave me? I should walk away from it? Give up? I mean, I will, obviously, if it means it’ll stop. I can pay people off, I can do anything, if it’s…if that’s the reason.”

“I can’t say, for sure - no one can - but I don’t think, once someone has started killing, that they’d just stop. If it really is something to do with…well, you…which we don’t know, well, they could just move their attention to someone else, someone like…your PA, for example, or…”

“You.” Lestrade said, stopping.

The dogs panted loudly in the still air, as John looked into Lestrade’s deep brown eyes.

“Potentially.” He said, finally breaking the near-silence. “But I can look after myself.”

Lestrade blew out a breath. “Shit. Shit.” He patted his pockets. “I need a cigarette. Who…this is fucked up.”

“I can look after myself. I promise. Look, I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’ve got a pistol, back at the house. To protect you, me, us, I mean.”

Lestrade looked up sharply from rolling a cigarette. “You what? A gun? Jesus Christ!”

“It’s fine, I mean, it’s…the police know about it, sort of, and…well, the people who know can make sure it won’t be a problem.”

“How can it not be a problem? You any idea what the press would do if they found out? They’d crucify me - us, they’d… where did you get from?”

“I think it’s better that you don’t know. But like I said, it’s…known about, officially, by the right people. Sherlock’s brother, he…is in a position for it not to be a problem.”

Lestrade blew out a breath, licking the paper as he rolled the cigarette and then feeling in his pockets for his lighter. “If you..” he paused as the flame touched the end of the slim roll-up. “‘F you say so.”

“Just…don’t think about it. Believe me, if I need to use it, the press will have a far bigger story than that.”

“Jesus, know how to make a guy feel better, don’t you?” Lestrade took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew it out. “This is such a mess.”

“I know. But we’ll sort it out.”

Lestrade started walking after the dogs again, but looked across at John. “I almost believe you,” he smiled.

John laughed, then tentatively reached for Lestrade’s hand. “I believe in Sherlock. We’ll get there.”

 

The next few days were filled with trips back and forth to London, for both final touches to the musical and publicity.

John sat in the corner of radio shows, tried to keep himself out of the way in magazine offices, as people bustled around, and ate plenty of high-class meals as journalists made the most of their expense accounts whilst conducting interviews for print. He grew used to being referred to as Lestrade’s ‘assistant’, and also the questions that inevitably followed, in which Lestrade would hint that the ‘assistance’ in question was more related to security than paperwork.

He came to love the lazy mornings when Lestrade was always up first, and breakfast was always made for him. He also loved it when the day ended early enough for them to make the most of the afternoon sun, walking the dogs as the shadows lengthened.

 

Lestrade had been caught up in photography session all morning, and John had been trying his best to not to laugh at the make-up, outfits and poses. He knew he probably wouldn’t recognise the pictures anyway, once they’d been airbrushed and adjusted. Then they were free, returning to the house in Lestrade’s Aston Martin, roof down, enjoying the sunshine.

Once indoors the dogs were set free and Lestrade headed for his office. His paperwork was quickly done, and then he sat on the steps with his guitar, playing to John and doing vocal exercises. John would occasionally prompt him to sing a certain song, or ask about the lyrics, but he mainly just enjoyed the opportunity to listen.

“Right,” Lestrade said, jumping up and stretching. “Time to take those two fur bags for a run, and stretch our legs.” He headed indoors, guitar in hand, and John gathered the mugs and glasses they’d been drinking from, taking them in to the sink.

 

Lestrade returned and stood at the back door, whistling loudly. John smiled as a Dalmatian emerged from the bushes at the far end of the garden and bounded up toward them, tongue lolling. Lestrade grabbed its collar, then whistled again. Waiting for the other one to appear. "Chops!" he yelled. "Here, girl."

John stroked Mozzy's ears, petting her as she waited.

"Hold her?" Lestrade said, waiting for John to slide his fingers under her collar before removing his own and walking down the garden, calling out and whistling.

"Where's your mate then?" John said to Mozzy. "Hey?" he patted her flank, stroking fingers over the silky short fur.

"John!" Lestrade emerged from the end of the garden, Chops in his arms. "Get her in the LandRover, keys are by the kitchen door."

John moved, dragging Mozzy with him, fumbling through the various keys until he found one with a Land Rover tag, then running for the front of the house.

He clicked his fingers, as he'd seen Lestrade do, to encourage Mozzy to jump into the back of the vehicle, then waited as Lestrade followed him, the dog lolling in his arms.

"What happened? What is it?" he asked.

"Don't know - I think she's eaten something, Mozzy might have too. The vet's straight through the village, on the main road on the left. There's a big sign by the gate, will you drive?"

"Of course," John climbed into the vehicle, looking over his shoulder as Lestrade clambered into the back with both dogs, Chops supported in his arms. As soon as they were safely in, John drove, impatiently waiting for the electric gates to swing open before getting onto the main road and flooring the accelerator.

He glanced around a few times, to see Lestrade on the floor, holding onto Mozzy's collar with one hand, the other arm wrapped around Chops. Finally he saw the large sign and pulled into the car park, not caring that he was across two spaces when he leapt out and unlatched the rear gate of the LandRover. He caught Mozzy as she tried to leap out, and helped Lestrade with a hand on his arm as he climbed down, trousers dirty and dusty from the floor. He noticed that Lestrade held a piece of meat in one hand, covered in dried grass clippings and dusty mud.

"What's..." he gestured.

"I think someone left it. I think it's poisoned," Lestrade answered, heading for the open door of the surgery.

"It...what?" John gaped. "You don't...shit."

Lestrade headed for the reception, where the lady was standing up, obviously recognising that it was an urgent situation.

"I think she's eaten something poisoned," Lestrade said. "She's been sick, some foaming around the mouth, please, is Sarah in?"

"Of course, go down there, third door on the left, go in, I'll fetch her."

Lestrade set off, and John followed, trying to stop Mozzy sniffing another dog in the waiting room. He was aware of the people staring at Lestrade, and wondered if he'd ever get used to the fact that no matter what the situation, people would be looking at them.

Lestrade put Chops down on the table, murmuring to her softly, stroking her ears as she whimpered.

"You think someone did it deliberately?" John asked.

"Well you don't accidentally chuck poison into someone's fucking garden," Lestrade snapped, then immediately closed his eyes and shook his head. "Sorry, I'm sorry. Yes, it looks that way, if it is poison."

A woman entered the room, pulling nitrile gloves on as she did so. "Greg, what's up?" she said, immediately heading for Chops.

"Don't know exactly. I called them both in, and only Mozzy showed. I found Chops at the bottom of the garden, flat out - there was vomit, and this," he slapped the chunk of meat down. "I don't know if Mozzy got any too - that was under Chops, so she might have eaten the rest before Mozzy found her, I don't know."

"Okay - vomit you say, how much? And did it look like meat?"

"Um...yeah, could have been, I don't know, I panicked, just wanted to get her here."

"Okay, well we'll check her out, and Mozzy too. Try not to worry, she's in the best place."

Lestrade nodded.

"Now go and wash your hands, especially as you've touched that meat. Don't want you getting ill too."

Lestrade headed to the corner where the sink was, pumping out some soap into his palm.

 

***

"Do you want to drive?" John offered.

Lestrade shook his head.

John unlocked the passenger door, then walked around, climbing into the driver's seat.

"You okay?" he asked, softly, as Lestrade slumped into the seat, head tipped back, eyes closed.

"If she...if she dies, I'll fucking kill whoever did this," Lestrade said, barely choking the words out. "What sort of sick bastard..."

John reached over, rubbing his hand over Lestrade's knee. "I know."

"Thanks for...being calm," Lestrade gave a small smile. "Don't know what I'd've done without you. Suppose we should get back, see if someone's stolen the contents of the house."

John slid the key in the ignition, realising that as they left none of the doors or windows had been closed or locked.

 

The house seemed oddly silent and still without the dogs, especially with the sunlight streaming in. A quick check proved that everything seemed untouched, and John relaxed slightly.

 

Lestrade was very quiet, and seemed lost, as he wandered around the house, tidying things, washing out both the dog’s bowls and water, and, with John’s help, walking every inch of the large garden, checking in every bush and hedge, around all the edges in long grass. Lestrade upturned a bucket over the pile of sick, to stop any other animals getting to it. They didn’t find any more meat, but John knew that Lestrade would be incredibly wary about giving the dogs freedom again - if they both came back at all.

 

“At least you found her quickly,” John ventured. “I’m sure you’ve given her the best possible chance.”

Lestrade sighed. “I just…I shouldn’t be feeling this way, should I, people have been murdered, and I’m upset about a fucking dog.”

John gently stroked a hand down Lestrade’s arm. “She’s not just a dog to you - she’s family, and it’s not just about her, is it? It’s the intrusion to your home, to your life. This person - whoever did this - was targeting your pets. We can’t assume that just because the dogs were targeted it’s nothing to do with someone who happily murders people. They might…they might just have needed the dogs out of the way.”

Lestrade slumped onto the edge of the decking, staring out across the fields.

“Fucking hell.”

 

Lestrade called Dimmock and explained what had happened, leading to a forensics officer, Dimmock and another officer, Donovan, visiting the house.

John attempted to slightly gloss over some of their activities during the day, and noticed that Lestrade did the same. They walked the garden with the officers, and then again with a police dog, whilst the meat and the pile of sick from the lawn were retrieved for testing.

Finally the locks on the doors were checked, to ensure nothing had been tampered with.

Dimmock suggested that Lestrade stay somewhere else, until the killer had been found, but Lestrade resisted. John half wanted to persuade him to leave, perhaps stay at Baker Street, but he knew that was a conversation to have once they were alone.

 

Finally the house was once again empty, and as the gloom gathered outside John walked around the house with Lestrade, checking every door and window again.

“We can go back to mine,” John offered. “We’d be safe there, I think?”

Lestrade shook his head. “I want to be…I don’t want to be far from the vet’s. Just in case. And this place is okay. We’ve got the alarm, even if someone did get in.”

“Yeah, okay.” John gave Lestrade a squeeze. “Just tell me if there’s anything I can do.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betad by Eloquar, all mistakes which remain are my own :)

John woke with a start, feeling Lestrade's hand bump against his thigh. He was pretty sure Lestrade had made some sort of noise, and could feel him moving next to him, sitting up.

"All right?" he mumbled, rolling over, wondering if Lestrade had had a nightmare or something.

Lestrade didn't move, just pressed his palm hard against John's leg, as if trying to still him.

In the dim light John saw a dark figure looming over the bed. There was a dull gleam of metal pointing down at Lestrade's head. John felt his mouth go dry.

"Shit."

"What's he doing here?" The gun – a sawn off shotgun, John could see, now his eyes were used to the darkness – waved toward him.

"He…never mind him. What do you want?" Lestrade's voice sounded odd, strained – scared.

"What do I want? You know what I want, you fucking poof!" The end of the gun was shoved against Lestrade's forehead, and Lestrade gave a sharp intake of breath.

John was frozen – paralysed. If he'd been the one threatened, he would have had a hundred ideas running through his head. As it was, defenceless, naked, and watching his lover being threatened, he didn't have a clue what to do.

"I don't. I really don't," Lestrade answered, swallowing audibly. "I don't even know who you are."

The figure moved back a step. "Turn on the light."

Lestrade reached blindly and hit the touch-lamp, giving the room a dull glow. The young man was still largely in the shadows.

"You do know, you poof. I sent you letter, told you what I wanted, and you ignored me. Well you can't ignore me now, can you? Get up."

Lestrade slowly swung his legs out of bed, keeping the corner of the cover over his groin. "Can I put my jeans on?" he asked, gesturing to them on the floor.

"Yes, do it. I don't want to see your knob, not like him," the gun waved wildly in John's direction.

Lestrade pulled on the jeans, standing up and fumbling as he did up the button and fly.

"Come on, you cunt. And you," the gun waved back at John. "You too, I'm not leaving you up here."

John reached for his own trousers and followed Lestrade's lead, no sudden movements, nothing suspicious.

"Going to tell me your name?" Lestrade asked, as he took a step closer.

"You know my fucking name!" the man shouted, and swung the barrels of the gun against Lestrade's head, causing Lestrade to double over, clutching his temple. John wasn't sure if he was hit badly or had managed to flinch away in time. "Tom, my name's Tom, you know that!" He was leaning over Lestrade, who held a hand up, trying to protect himself.

"Tom what?" John asked gently. "I don't know you. I don't know what you want. Tell me, and we'll work it out, you don't need to be angry. I'm sure we can work it all out."

"You don't need to know anything - I don't care about you. It's him, it's all him, it always has been. Get downstairs, go, you first," he pointed to John.

John looked at Lestrade, who was standing up again, hand still held against the side of his head, and John could see a trickle of blood emerging between his fingers.

"Okay?" he murmured, wanting to reach out to Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded.

"Shut up, he doesn't need to be okay, just shut up and move, downstairs, now."

John walked slowly, his arms held out wide, wanting to look behind to check on Lestrade, but knowing it would be unwise.

"You betrayed him - betrayed him, and then you don't give a fuck, just here, with him, bloody...I'll show you, show everyone, you wait, no one can stop me getting what's mine, no one can. I've seen you, I know what you're like, don't even give a shit, you don't give a shit."

"Of course I do! Of course I care! I just don’t know what this is about. Tell me, I’ll do whatever you want, we can work something out!”

“Yeah, you can do anything, you can do whatever want to. Fucking Lestrade, fucking God, no one would say 'no' to you!"

"What do you want?" Lestrade turned around, only to be roughly shoved backwards down the last few stairs, sprawling on the floor at the bottom. John was by his side in an instant.

"You okay?" he said softly, taking the opportunity to glance at the cut on his head, glad to see it was only a shallow slice.

Lestrade nodded and stood again, watching the intruder, anger clear in every line of his body.

"Get in there," the man gestured to the door of the room full of memorabilia. "I'll fucking tell you what I want."

John and Lestrade both complied, and John willed Lestrade not to do anything stupid.  
The man picked up a photograph of the band, looking at it closely, the gun still steady in their direction. John quickly calculated there was no way he could covered the gap between them without a very real risk of being killed.

"You say you don't know who I am, but what about the letters, I sent you letters, I've sent you them for years. And him, all of you. How can you not know who I am. At the theatre, I tried to talk to you, and you just…you just ignored me, you didn’t even know my name.”

“You…”Lestrade was frowning. “You…work there. I do know you, I…you’re in lighting, right? I…you haven’t been around lately though, have you?”

“I have! I have, you just…I’ve been there every day, watching you, but you didn’t want to know when I introduced myself, did you? You and that bastard in charge, so i wrote to you, again, so you’d know to find me. Talked to everyone else, didn’t you? Talked to them, what, because they’re going to be stars too? Not like the rest of us, behind the scenes, what, we’re not worth your time? We’re not the ones with the make up and getting the photos took and making you money - more money!” 

Lestrade glanced at John, then turned back, following John's example and holding his arms out, trying to be non-threatening. "I don't get to see all the post sent to me. Barely any of it, really. People in the office deal with it all. Send out pictures, that sort of thing. What did you send?"

"I sent...I told you everything!" the man sounded desperate. "Everything about mum and dad, and...you owe us! You owe mum and me, after what he did!"

"Look, I honestly...I don't have a clue what you're talking about. Tell me, now, I'll see what I can do to help."

"He...Tommy, he was my Dad," the man said.

John glanced at Lestrade, whose eyebrows were raised in surprise.

“Tommy…Um, right...okay."

"And he left us, he left us with nothing. Wouldn't even...nothing! Now I want what's ours. My mum's in hospital, she's dying, and you owe us, you owe us everything that he had."

"That's...his family are dealing with that, I don't have anything to do with his estate. He was my friend, but I don't have any control over that."

"They won't listen to me! I asked for your help, and you ignored me!"

Lestrade shook his head. "I never saw your letters."

"You bastard!" the man was screaming now, gun shaking in his hands.

"But I could talk to them, yeah? Talk to the people managing his estate. Maybe...maybe, I don't know, they could come to some agreement. I don't know. It really isn't anything to do with me." Lestrade put a his hand back up to his head, touching the wound.

"You better not be fucking lying to me," the man said.

Lestrade shook his head, and as he did so he wobbled slightly, reaching out to the nearby book shelf for support. The man tensed, then relaxed as Lestrade used his other hand to rub his eyes. John frowned. He hadn't thought the head injury was that bad.

"No, I can...I can do that," Lestrade smeared more blood from his wound over his face as he rubbed it. "I need to...can I sit down? i'm going to..." he gestured loosely to the chair on the other side of the room, and as the man glanced over Lestrade grabbed a large perspex award and threw it as hard as he could at the man. It struck him high on the chest, and knocked him sideways. John leapt forward, taking the opportunity to grab both barrels of the shotgun and yank it from the man's grasp. It went off, the noise completely deafening in the small room, plaster spraying them from the ceiling, but then it was in his control, and he turned away as Lestrade hurled himself at the man.

John moved quickly, glancing to see Lestrade on top of the intruder on the floor, obviously winning the fight. He instinctively checked the gun was safe, broke it open and threw the second cartridge onto the floor.

"Call the police!" Lestrade shouted, and John ran for the phone in the office. He could hear the sounds of the continuing struggle in the other room as he scrabbled through the papers on the desk, finally finding the handset hiding under a magazine. He hit treble nine as he headed out into the corridor. 

He heard a choked off sound of pain and ran back, only to see the man smashing the award into the side of Lestrade's head. He had been sure Lestrade could easily overpower their attacker, but he suddenly noticed Lestrade's hands - he couldn't grab onto anything, and was attempting to use his forearm to lean on the man's windpipe, leaving the intruder free to continue battering him. Sheer willpower meant Lestrade kept the pressure up.

"Jesus," he leapt forward, grabbing the man's wrist and wrestling the makeshift weapon from him. The struggles didn't stop, and John dropped the phone as he tried to grab the man's hands and stop him throwing punches. Lestrade took the opportunity to drive the heel of his palm hard into the man's nose. The man gave a grunt of pain, blood immediately streaming down his face, so John took advantage of his surprise, kneeling on one of his wrists, grabbing the other while Lestrade threw himself on the man's legs to stop him kicking out.

Lestrade was breathing heavily, pressing one hand to his head, where blood was flowing freely, leaving dark streaks in his silvery hair.

"Greg, the phone," he nodded to where it lay on the floor.

Lestrade reached for it, managing to pick it up and stick it between his shoulder and his ear.

Tom was now crying, but still spitting out insults and threats in between sobs.

John heard him giving the details, his breathing ragged, his hands cradled against his chest.

"Ask for an ambulance, too," John ordered.

Lestrade's eyes widened. "You're hurt?" he asked, looking John over.

"For you, you idiot!" John snapped.

Lestrade frowned, but complied, and continued talking on the phone as they waited. John managed to pull Tom's arms up over his head, holding them tight on the floor.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, he heard Lestrade explaining how to get through the security gates, and the wail of sirens was audible.

Lestrade looked around the room, then pulled a large black bag towards them with his foot.

"In there," he gestured. "Be some cables. I need to open the door."

It took some more struggling, and plenty more threats from Tom before John had tightly tied an electrical lead around Tom's wrists and began on his ankles.

Lestrade finally stood, wobbling slightly, supporting himself on the bookshelves before heading for the front door, releasing the locks. John heard voices and was grateful when two police officers appeared, handcuffing Tom before removing the cable and dragging the man off the floor and onto his feet.

He immediately went to Lestrade's side, looking into his eyes and glancing around for something to use as a dressing for his head.

"Come into the kitchen," he ordered, helping Lestrade out of the chair he'd sunk onto.

Once he'd carefully seated him at the dining table he wet a tea towel and gently wiped away the excess blood from Lestrade's face, trying to pick out the serious injuries from the bruises and scrapes.

A police officer entered the room and nodded a greeting. "Sirs. We've got him safely detained in the back of the car. Was he alone? We can call a dog in if there was anyone else, anyone who's fled?"

"He was alone," John confirmed. "He was...deranged. I mean...obsessed or something."

"Right. We've called in so someone will be here to take evidence samples shortly, and the ambulance is on the way. If you'd rather wait to give evidence until you've been seen by a medical professional that would probably be best."

"No," Lestrade answered, just as John said "Yes", and they glared at each other.

"I'm okay," Lestrade protested.

"Right, well if you are that's good. But he's not going anywhere, and it won't take long for them to check you over. So we'll do it that way, yeah?"

Lestrade didn't answer, but nodded, rubbing his face on his arm, rubbing more blood over himself. John grabbed his wrist before he could drop his hand again and looked at the swollen, bloodied knuckles.

"Jesus, Greg, look at...I'm going to get some ice. Don't move."

 

He was almost surprised when he got back to Lestrade and found him exactly as he'd been left.

After making up some quick makeshift ice packs, he gently put one on top of a fresh tea towel on Lestrade's hand, and held the other to his head, watching as Lestrade's eyes fluttered closed.

New sirens sounded outside, and Lestrade blinked up at him. "If they take me in, will you come?"

John smiled. "Of course."

"Fucking glad you were here," Lestrade said softly, reaching out with his uninjured hand and smiling when John took it and gave it a very gentle squeeze.

"Me too," he answered.

Then the two paramedics entered the kitchen and John stepped back, keeping a watchful eye on Lestrade as he was tended to quickly and efficiently.

As one of them rooted through a bag to find something he leant over to speak to him.

"Will you be taking Greg in?" he asked. "If so, I'll just fetch him a shirt and some shoes."

"I think we will, mate, yeah. Couple of nasty head wounds, could do with a stitch or two. You with him at the time, were you?"

John nodded.

"Didn't lose consciousness, did he? He says not, but..."

"No, no loss of consciousness," John confirmed. "No slurring or apparent weakness in any limbs, either. He suffers from arthritis, in his hands, so no grip function tests will tell you anything, I'm afraid."

The paramedic raised his eyebrows.

"Sorry, I'm a doctor. I mean, I was. Not now, but...well, anyway, nothing alarming. But I would fully support keeping him under obs."

The medic smiled and nodded. "Take it you'll be riding with us, then?"

John nodded. "If you don't mind?"

"Never mind there being a doctor on the wagon, mate," the man smiled.

 

John fetched clothes for Lestrade and quickly dressed himself, then ran back down the stairs.

Once they had ensured that the house would either be locked up or an officer left on guard, Lestrade climbed into the back of the ambulance, and John sat nearby, watching him carefully.

Lestrade glanced at him, looking worn out and in pain.

"I remember him, now," Lestrade said, mumbling slightly. “He works at the theatre. Early on he tried to introduce himself, but the stage manager told him off. I haven’t seen him around recently, but…he must’ve been up in the rigs or something, watching. He must've...shit," he turned away, and John reached out, rubbing his upper arm, hoping to offer some sort of comfort. “He must have been watching, who I was talking to, who I was paying attention to. And then…just…”

"You could never have known," John said. "No one could. And it's over now."

Lestrade gave a small nod, but John knew it wasn't enough - nothing short of bringing back the murdered dancers would be.

 

Once at the hospital Lestrade was checked over, one of the cuts on his head stitched, the other glued, given pain relief and sent to x-ray for his hand. John stayed with him, wishing there was a way he could stop the stares and whispers. Lestrade didn't seem to notice, but John guessed it was years of practice, ignoring the unwanted attention.

 

The police interviewed them in a quiet office within the hospital, John sipping on a terrible cup of tea and Lestrade cradling a plastic cup of coffee in the hand which wasn’t now splinted and in a sling.

Lestrade was quiet, just giving the plain facts. The officers explained that the alarm system had been cleverly disabled, and agreed with John that it had probably been done when they were at the vet’s. They couldn’t, however, confirm or deny Tom’s story about Tommy being his parent. They were still trying to find out who his next of kin was.

When they were finally sent home, Lestrade insisted on going back to the house, and called a driver to fetch them. The nursing staff allowed them to stay in a staff room, away from the public gaze, while they waited.

“All right?” John reached for Lestrade’s free hand.

Lestrade shrugged. “Seems…so very very pointless. If I’d…if I’d know, when he wrote those letters…I could have done something. If I’d found the time to talk to him…”

“You can’t go thinking like that,” John quickly cut him off. “He’s ill, Greg. He’ll go for psychiatric review now, and they’ll hopefully be able to give him some help. But no one could have predicted he’d do this.”

Lestrade just shook his head, and John knew it would take a lot longer to convince him - if it were ever possible.

“Do you think he is? I mean, do you think he’s Tommy’s son?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Could be. Who knows. Tommy didn’t exactly say no to his urges very often.”

“They’ll find out. And then…well, I suppose it’s down to what his will says, about children.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Share of nothing’s still nothing, however it works out.” He sighed and closed his eyes, fingers finding and prodding the neat line of stitches in his hair.

 

The nurse knocked on the door when their car had arrived, and Lestrade walked out briskly, leaving John a step behind him. John wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t expected the crowd of press outside the doors, or the wall of noise as soon as they saw Lestrade, all shouting for attention.

Lestrade kept his arms up, protecting himself, fending off microphones and cameras alike until the driver managed to wrap an arm around his shoulders, shoving people out of the way and bundling him into the car. John was largely ignored, until Lestrade was in the car, face in his hands, hiding from the scrutiny of the reporters. Then they turned on John, who all but ran for the car and threw himself inside, the driver moving off before the door had even closed.

“Jesus Christ,” he twisted to look through the heavily tinted windows, seeing some of the photographers chasing them.

“Sorry. Should have warned you,” Lestrade said wearily. “I forget you don’t expect it.”

“It’s…insane.” John slumped back in the seat once the car was well clear.

“Yeah.” Lestrade agreed. “There’ll be more at the house. Shona will be there, too. She said she’d sort the alarm, the door locks, everything.”

“I don’t…how do you live like this?” John asked. “With them, I mean, watching your every move?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Try to be as boring as possible. Give them just enough to stay off my back. Play the game. Shona will give them a statement in a bit. Between that and any pictures they manage to get, they’ll make their own stories up.”

John just shook his head.

 

The gates opened as the car approached, and a policeman pushed back the assembled crowd of reporters and photographers.

There were two vans and a car already outside the house, the front door was wide open. A man was doing something to the lock, and two more were working outside, one up a ladder - John could only presume that it was something to do with the alarm. A police officer was also strolling around in the driveway and he could see more people moving around inside the house.

Lestrade looked at the scene and sighed, pausing for a moment even after the door was opened for him.

“Come on,” John said, clambering out, his hopes for a relaxed morning, and some more sleep, quickly evaporating. “I’ll get the coffee on.”

Lestrade gave a small smile and climbed from the car, shaking hands with the driver before following John into the house.

“Greg, John,” Shona greeted them, a sheaf of papers in her hand. “I’m glad you’re both okay. Come through to the kitchen, coffee’s on. I’ll show you what I’ve done. The electrician’s been, the alarm people are still working, and a locksmith is changing every lock in the building and on the studio.”

John smiled at her efficiency, and followed her through to the kitchen, watching with some concern as Lestrade virtually fell into a chair.

As he read through the papers a large mug of coffee was placed by his elbow. John went to the freezer to find some more ice for his hand, smiling at Shona as he did so. She silently nodded towards Lestrade and raised an eyebrow. John gave a so-so gesture in return.

“I have some good news for you, as well, Greg,” she said, sitting beside him with her own mug of tea. “The girls have both been given a clean bill of health, and will be back here shortly.”

Lestrade gave a genuine smile for the first time, and it made John smile, too.

“Really? Brilliant.” He leaned over and kissed Shona on the side of the head. “Thanks.”

“Oh, don’t thank me! Sarah’s the one who was up all night watching over them. She said it was a little touch and go for a while, but Chops has been getting stronger and stronger. She’s bringing them back herself, to talk you through it.”

 

John had hoped that Lestrade would get some more sleep, but Sarah and the dogs arrived before they managed to get that far.

They walked out of the house as Sarah opened the back of her van, revealing two large cages.

“Here we go, home again, girls!” She turned to greet them and stared, open-mouthed. “Well…the girls here look like they’re doing a damn sight better than you two,” she finally said. “What on Earth happened?”

 

The basics of the story were re-told, over yet another cup of coffee, whilst the dogs flopped onto the floor, having had a run around and sniffed every corner of the house they could get to, and been petted and given treats by Lestrade.

 

Finally, when most of the people had cleared out, Shona and Lestrade headed into the sitting room for a discussion about the upcoming publicity, while John fussed over the dogs and called Sherlock for a full update of what had happened.

Sherlock was, as John had expected, irritated beyond belief that he hadn’t solved the case. He blamed everyone, from the police who had been ‘incompetent’ at the first crime scenes, to Lestrade, for being so ‘stupid’ not to connect the dots, to the boy himself who apparently somehow fell short of the rules of engagement which existed purely in Sherlock’s head.

John abortively tried to defend Lestrade, Dimmock and the rest of the Metropolitan Police, and explain that criminals were indeed an unpredictable bunch, especially as he suspected that Tom had some undiagnosed mental illness under the angry exterior. He was cut off abruptly, though, by Sherlock telling him to come home because there was work to be done on a mysterious break in, then hanging up on him.

John stared at the phone for a moment - not surprised by Sherlock’s actions, but suddenly realising he didn’t quite know how his new relationship would work, without a case providing a backdrop to it all.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Eloquar, for a very fast beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.

The next week passed as a blur to John. He found he didn’t want to leave Lestrade alone for even one night, not after what had happened in the house. He did spend the odd day back at Baker Street, when Lestrade was being rushed from place to place for interviews with barely a moment between each one. 

One evening he climbed into the car which had pulled up outside, to find Lestrade fast asleep in the back. Shona smiled at John.

“Been a long day,” she said softly.

“He’s had a few of those,” John answered, taking a seat next to Lestrade.

“Should be a bit more relaxed tomorrow,” Shona said. “He’s got an appointment for a scan on his hand in the morning, nothing for the afternoon.”

John nodded, glancing over as Lestrade made a small noise in his sleep.

“Seems to be going well, though?” John ventured. “I mean…he was worried, about carrying on, with the…the…victims, I mean, that it might not be respectful?”

Shona shrugged. “Not his choice. Obviously the papers will run that angle, if they get bored with the good news. But as the old saying is - the show must go on. He’s had the programmes reprinted - the whole run, with a couple of pages in their memory. We’re going to approach the families, too, after the fuss has died down. Ask if they’d like a memorial fund, or scholarship, something like that, in memory.”

John nodded, glancing at Lestrade, smiling at the sight of him in his ‘rockstar’ gear - earrings, leather jacket, black shirt, jeans and boots. Completely different from the man who wandered around the house some mornings in soft pyjama trousers with the Bat Signal logo on them.

 

Once they were home John cooked some food, smiling as Lestrade roamed around, restless as he was unable to play his guitar or help much, with only one hand in working order.

“You know,” John said, around the fifth time that Lestrade wandered into the kitchen and peered over his shoulder. “Maybe now would be a good time to find someone to teach you that computer stuff you were thinking about?”

Lestrade paused, stole a slice of pepper, then turned on his heel and headed into his office. When music started playing from the speaker system John smiled to himself, glad he had found something to occupy his restless lover.

 

The next day Lestrade asked John to attend his appointment with the specialist, and John was pleased to sit in as the injury to Lestrade’s hand was discussed, and a plan of action and rehabilitation formed. The doctor also seemed glad that there was someone with medical training to prevent Lestrade from doing anything too stupid, and re-injuring himself.

Once free, they went back to the house and set out for a long walk with the dogs.

As they paused on top of the hill, gazing down at the autumnal colours creeping across the landscape, Lestrade took John’s hand in his own.

“Would you…would you come with me, to the opening night?” he asked.

“To…yes! Of course I will!” John smiled. “I’d love to.”

“I mean…will you walk down the carpet with me? The whole works? It would mean…well, obviously there’s the press, TV, you know…it’s a lot to deal with. I will completely understand if it’s a step you don’t want to take.”

“Oh. You don’t mean, like, security, do you? You mean…as partners?”

Lestrade gave a small grin. “Yeah. Partners.”

“I…yes, I would. I’d be honoured. I…well, you’ll have to tell me what to do, what to wear, everything, but, well, yes, I’d like to.”

“Brilliant. And yes, don’t worry, it’s…well, it’s easy. See this,” Lestrade waved his bandaged hand at the countryside before them.

John nodded.

“Well…imagine the complete opposite. Hundreds of people, noise, shouting, never knowing where to look, who’s yelling at you, who’s asked you what. It’s chaos, but you know, it’s all publicity. All for the show. All for the band, in the end. Price we pay and all that. Can’t do the job without them - press, public, so you know, got to run the gauntlet.”

“Just don’t let go of me,” John smiled. “And I’m sure I’ll survive.”

Lestrade interlinked their fingers, and pulled John close. “I won’t. Don’t you worry.”

 

As they walked back to the house, still hand in hand, Lestrade’s mobile phone rang. He fished it from his pocket and answered.

John listened to Lestrade’s half of the conversation, understanding someone was coming to visit them.

When Lestrade finally hung up he stuffed the phone back in his pocket and took John’s hand again.

“Police are coming to talk to us. Tell us what’s going on.”

John nodded and gave Lestrade’s hand a squeeze. “You okay?”

Lestrade gave a half-shrug. “Wait and see what they say, eh?”

 

Lestrade was feeding the dogs when the buzzer went for the front gates, and John headed to answer it, peering at the CCTV screen and recognising the officers.

He pressed the button to release the gates and watched as the car entered and the gates closed, making sure no one else entered with the vehicle.

 

Donovan and Dimmock greeted John, Donovan giving him a wink as they walked in and headed for the kitchen.

John noticed Lestrade battling one-handed with the coffee maker and quickly took over.

“Hi,” Lestrade greeted. “Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you,” Dimmock said, sitting down and placing a big folder down on the kitchen table.

“Coffee? Tea?” John offered.

 

Once everyone was comfortable, and Lestrade had a large mug of coffee sat in front of him, Dimmock opened the file.

“So, we’ve obviously spoken at length to the suspect,” he began. “As you know, he’s been remanded in custody, and obviously we’re working on the case, but also with a psychiatric team in prison, we’re assessing his mental health.”

Lestrade nodded, sipping his coffee.

“Obviously, with his arrest here, that part of the case isn’t in question. He’s admitted breaking in here - admitted that he tried to poison the dogs, to remove them from the property, then, as you took them to the vets, he’s admitted tampering with the burglar alarm. His skills as an electrician meant it was quite easy for him to bypass certain systems.”

Lestrade nodded, and John wanted to reach out to him, to support him, but he didn’t quite dare, in front of the police officers.

“So, it’s really the other murders which we have to focus on. We have found some evidence, so we’re building the case up against him, and we’re confident that when it comes to it, we’ll be able to charge him with those murders, too.”

Lestrade nodded again. “Any…” his voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. “Any idea why? I mean, those kids…they hadn’t done anything to him. Nothing.”

Dimmock nodded, pulling a face and chewing his bottom lip slightly. “It would…seem, at this point, that he was incredibly jealous of anyone from the production who you spent time with. He seems to resent that you spoke to them, and not to him.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense!” Lestrade leaned forward. “I didn’t know anything! Why didn’t he just…come and talk to me? Leave me a note? I don’t know, something?

“It seems,” Donovan cut in. “That he believed you starting work in that theatre was a sign, from Tommy, to him. And that Tommy was somehow controlling your presence, from…well, heaven, I suppose. He then became fixated on you, and believed you knew everything about the situation. We’re not entirely sure of exactly what was going on in his head, but it’s as if everyone you spent time with he saw as a rival. He’s a very…troubled, young man.”

Lestrade rubbed his hand over his face. “Jesus. He really thought, what, Tommy had sent me to him?”

Donovan nodded. “He believes very strongly that the man he thought was his father was in some way caring for him from beyond the grave, and that you were…not co-operating, in some way, and ignoring him in favour of others.”

“We’ve also had the results of a DNA test back.” Dimmock said. “He is in no way related to Thomas Dillon. We’re unsure of how he came to believe this, exactly. We’ve been trying to speak to his mother, but she is seriously ill in hospital.”

“Christ. What a mess,” Lestrade sighed.

“Well, you can be assured that he’s in custody now,” Donovan said. “And shouldn’t be out for a long while, and even then, only after some treatment, I’d imagine.”

“So…” John began, then sighed. “So he was just…what was he trying to achieve? Just the money?”

Dimmock shrugged. “As far as we can tell. Money, possibly fame, of a sort. Some sort of recognition, at the very least. Not just for himself - he was convinced he could help his mother - and held Thomas Dillon, and by association, Mr Lestrade here, responsible for them not living a life of luxury he felt he deserved. Sadly his mother has a terminal illness. Money isn’t going to save her, at this stage, although it seems he was so fixated he wouldn’t accept that, when told by the doctors. There are other offences, on his record, which I won’t go into now, but which point towards such unhealthy fixations with certain people.”

“Well, thanks for…letting us know,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “And you know, if there’s anything I can do, just…let me know, yeah?”

“Of course.”

The officers stood and made their way back to the front door.

As John and Lestrade watched them leave John slid his arm around Lestrade’s waist. “You okay?” he asked.

Lestrade nodded. “Christ, I feel…sorry for him, almost, now. I mean…he’s obviously ill, isn’t he? And been fed a pack of lies. Sort of ironic, almost - to wish someone like Tom was your father, when he was…well, God, he loves…loved…his kids to bits, the ones he knew about. But he was hardly the sort of person you’d choose. There wasn’t much of his life when he wasn’t running from one demon to another.”

“He’s in the best place, for now - I mean, being looked after, not in prison.”

“Yeah. Wish it hadn’t…how can you kill someone, someone who’s done nothing to you, and then carry on your life? Go to work, go and watch all those people who are so devastated by the death?”

“Don’t even try to understand,” John answered. “That way madness lies - literally.”

“But to…he would have seen them, the grief…”

“Seriously,” John warned. “Don’t. You won’t ever understand, because you can’t. No one can, who isn’t in that lad’s head.”

Lestrade just shook his head, and pulled John in for a tight hug.

 

The next few days were even busier with the press, radio shows, photoshoots, and, as John discovered when he received a phone call to wait for the car - shopping.

Shona smiled as John climbed into the car.

“Oh, I was expecting Greg,” John said. “Not that it isn’t lovely to see you.”

“We’re going to get him now,” Shona assured. “Because - and don’t tell him I said this - he loves a bit of shopping. And you both need to look dapper on that red carpet.”

The car pulled up outside a nondescript office block and Lestrade jogged across the pavement, clambering inside and grinning at them both.

“Have you told him why he’s here?” he asked Shona.

“I have indeed,” she smiled.

“So…you often kidnap people to take them clothes shopping, then?” John asked.

“Only some people. And not always clothes shopping.”

“Huh. I know someone you’d get along with - he loves a bit of kidnapping too.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “I hope that I get first dibs on kidnapping you, these days.”

John laughed. “I think I’m the person with the least control over that! It’s only Sherlock’s brother, anyway. He’s a bit…dramatic, like that.”

Lestrade looked slightly nervous. “And…who does he kidnap?”

“Oh, anyone he wants. Like I said, flair for the dramatic. Although…on a different scale to Sherlock.”

Lestrade looked at John with a frown on his face for a moment. “And now I really can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

John was saved from answering by the car stopping outside a small shop.

“Come on,” Lestrade beckoned. “We have an appointment.”

 

The last time John had ever been measured for clothing was when he’d ordered his dress uniform in the army, and it made him feel slightly uncomfortable, but he stood still and followed directions, while the tailor took down his sizing.

Lestrade wandering around the small shop, looking at shirts and ties and occasionally glancing over at John, smiling.

“So, Sir, what sort of thing would you be after?” the tailor asked.

“I, uh, I’m not really sure.” John looked at Lestrade for help.

“It’s for the opening night. Lots of photos,” Lestrade responded. “Red carpet, you know? John claims not to own a suit, so you’ve got your work cut out.”

The tailor smiled. “Ah, well, if you’d like advice, Sir, I have plenty to give. Or you could ignore it all, like he does, and wear a t-shirt under a bespoke suit and make my forefathers spin in their graves?”

John laughed. “Ah, well, I’d like the advice. And…well, I promise not to wear a t-shirt?”

Lestrade smiled at them both. “Shirt for this one, I promise, Jeremy.”

“Tie?” Jeremy asked.

“Can’t promise that,” Lestrade laughed. “But I won’t rule it out.”

 

Jeremy showed John various pictures of suit of different styles, and gave him advice about which would suit his body shape the best, and then went through what seemed like a hundred fabric samples. He finally picked a cloth, and then a lining, to go with the style he had chosen - all of them heavily influenced by both Jeremy and Lestrade putting forward their opinions.

“Right then, Sir. So we’ll get that run up, and you can come back for the fitting in…shall we say three days, Mr Lestrade?”

Lestrade nodded.

“And for you? Another suit?” Jeremy asked.

“Just a shirt,” Lestrade said. “Black. To go with the suit you made a few months ago. Shona can drop it in if you want?”

Jeremy waved a hand. “No need, it’s all on record. I’ll sort you something out.”

Lestrade nodded. “Three days then.”

“Indeed.”

They walked back out to the car and John looked back, slightly amazed. “He can make a whole suit, in three days?”

Lestrade shrugged. “For a premium. It’ll be worth it.”

“I’ve never had a suit made before.”

“About time you did then,” Lestrade answered. “There’s nothing like a suit that fits properly. You’ll be fighting them off on that carpet.”

John laughed. “As if anyone’ll notice me, when you’re there!”

“Oh, I assure you,” Shona cut in. “They will notice you, John. We’ll have a chat about that, in fact.”

John glanced to Lestrade, who shrugged and nodded. “Shona is the best in the business. Stops me putting my foot in it all the time.”

Shona snorted slightly. “Try to.”

Lestrade grinned. “Got to let them see I’m human, Sho.”

 

John found it faintly embarrassing, at first, when they sat around the kitchen table and worked out the exact language they’d use to describe their relationship, their intentions, John’s relationship with Sherlock - who Shona had clearly read up on - and discussed hand holding, kissing, posing for photos and every other eventuality for the press.

A couple of days later they went to watch the dress rehearsal for the show, and John found himself smiling through it - the upbeat nature, the story weaving the songs together, and he found he had a special soft spot for the scene which the cast had been rehearsing on the day he and Sherlock had first stepped into Lestrade’s life.

They were sitting near the back of the stalls, Lestrade had his foot resting on the opposite knee, and was marking out the time with his hand, until John reached over and held it still, giving a quick squeeze to try and convey his excitement.

At the end of the show, as the cast lined up to take the bow, Lestrade jumped up, slapping his thigh in an attempt at clapping, then sticking his fingers in his mouth and giving a piercing whistle.

“Well done! Bloody well done,” he shouted out, heading for the aisle and walking toward the stage. “You’ve all done brilliantly.”

He jogged up a short flight of steps leading to the stage, and went down the line of performers, shaking hands one by one.

“It’s been a difficult road,” he addressed them all, as he reached the end of the line. “A bloody difficult time for all of us, I know. And it’s a testament to your drive - your professionalism - that you have all held it together, during the very worst of times, and you have all put on brilliant performances. I hope you’re all proud of yourselves, because you should be. Now relax, enjoy yourselves, there’s some food and drink backstage. And next stop, press night!”

There were a few shouts of thanks, and the cast all headed for the wings, leaving Lestrade on the stage alone. John watched as he glanced around, clearly checking out the staging, the backdrops and a few of the props. Then he turned, and headed to talk to the director and choreographer.

Once Lestrade was done he headed back to John.

“So…what happens now?” John asked. “Is that it? Next time they’re on it’s the opening?”

“Oh, no. Previews now, for the next few days. Then the opening.”

“Right. The opening. Press, suits, pictures, trying not to swear and smiling until my face hurts, then smiling some more, right?”

“You learn fast,” Lestrade pulled John into a hug and kissed him. “It’ll be fine. Stick with me or Viv, or any other friendly face you see. If you lose us, just be polite and vague. And always ask them who they are, and who they work for. Then you know which way they’ll spin it.”

“Right, yeah. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

 

John was feeling considerably less confident as he stood in front of the mirror in a posh hotel room, just down the road from the theatre. He had looked out earlier, when they had met up with the rest of the band for a private lunch, and seen the barriers going up, the banners, the carpet being rolled out and the police congregating at the end of the road.

The fans were also beginning to line the road, hanging their own signs on the rails, many of them in band t-shirts, often whole families, hoping to get a glimpse of The Rox.

“You look amazing,” Lestrade walked up behind him and slid a hand down to his bum, giving it a squeeze.

John tweaked his lapels, tugged the jacket down a little and resisted the urge to try and push his hair into a better style.

“I feel…ridiculous,” John admitted. “I haven’t worn a suit for years.”

“But it’s comfy, right?”

“Yes, yes, it’s completely fine. It’s just…you know, feels like dressing up, like it’s not really me.” He turned to look at Lestrade, who was looking completely at home in a black suit, black shirt and an array of silver jewellery. “You look amazing.”

“It’s all dressing up, though,” Lestrade gave him a kiss. “And remember, what they see, is what we give them to see. And whatever they say, tomorrow, in the red tops, it isn’t about us, not really. They don’t know us, and never will.”

John nodded.

“So…ready?” Lestrade asked.

“No,” John laughed.

“Gonna do it anyway?” Lestrade smiled.

“You bet.”

 

John fidgeted in the lift, adjusting his suit again in the mirror. Then the doors opened, Lestrade gripped his hand and they strode out of the lift together. Lestrade smiled and nodded to a few people who called things out, then led them down the steps and out into the roadway.

The crowd roared. Piercing screams and whoops seemed to fill the small roadway.

Lestrade waved to the fans, and John realised he would have no trouble keeping the smile on his face - watching the people pour out so much love for Lestrade was making him grin ear to ear.

He tried to respond as Lestrade seemed to know exactly where to look, who to smile at, when to wave.

“Fancy a kiss?” Lestrade said, as he turned toward John, waving to the people further down the road.

“Are…are you sure?” John asked.

“I am if you are. See what sort of reaction we get.”

“Okay,” John grinned and tilted his head back as Lestrade bent down slightly so their lips met.

The wave of screams almost deafened him. Camera flashes seemed to permanently light the street, leaving him blinking in surprise as they broke apart.

He followed Lestrade’s lead and smiled and waved some more, as they slowly walked down the street, hand in hand.

 

Despite people trying to usher them along, and more cars and celebrities arriving all the time, it still took them over an hour to get from the hotel to the entrance of the theatre.

Lestrade was unable to sign anything - his hand now encased in a soft black splint, but they paused for photographs, John even taking a few, as people desperately held their phones out to him, pleading for a picture with Lestrade. Lestrade also managed a few scraggly kisses and hearts with his left hand, when people seemed so desperate that tears were likely. He also ended up holding at least two toddlers for pictures, much to John’s amazement.

The whole band were eventually on the carpet, and at that point John broke away to stand with Viv and some of the organisers, as flashbulbs went off continuously, snapping shots of the band in front of the entrance to the theatre, carefully positioned to get all the advertising for the show in the background.

Finally they got inside the busy foyer, with various celebrities and theatre critics all milling around, talking and drinking.

“Jesus Christ,” Lestrade breathed. “Someone get me something very alcoholic, please?”

John wasn’t surprised when, within 30 seconds, four drinks arrived almost simultaneously. He snagged one which seemed to be going spare and gulped a bit of it down.

“Well. That was…”

“Yeah.” Lestrade had somehow finished his first drink, grabbed another, and, whilst constantly greeting people and exchanging the briefest of pleasantries, he managed to lead the way to the deserted auditorium.

Once inside he pulled John into a tight hug. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so,” John hugged him back. “You?”

Lestrade laughed. “I’m used to it!”

“It’s…pretty intense, isn’t it? I mean, just the screaming, not knowing where to look.”

“Yeah. Sorry, I probably really didn’t prepare you for it. I don’t know how to describe it, if you’ve never…”

“You did fine. It was fine. And none of the questions were…that bad, right?”

“We’ll find out tomorrow,” Lestrade said. “What they asked doesn’t matter. It’s the questions they can make our answers fit that you need to worry about.”

John swallowed, and thought of a million ways their answers could be twisted, then shook his head.

“Right, quick visit to the cast, then everyone’ll be in here, and there’s no going back,” Lestrade said, heading for the stage.

 

John loitered outside the dressing rooms, as people rushed backward and forward. He spotted the tables full of cards, gifts and flowers, and realised each pile had a small card next to it, with the name of a cast member on it. He smiled at the helium balloons, roses, teddies and glittery cards, all wishing ‘Good Luck’ and various other well-wishes.

A loud bell rang, and a solemn voice on the loudspeaker announced ten minutes to curtain up. Lestrade appeared again, and beckoned to John.

“Right, five minutes schmoozing, and then… two and a bit hours trying not to look at the expression on a single critic’s face.”

“It’ll be fine.” John moved in and kissed him hard. “It’s a great show. And everyone will love it. And I love you.”

Lestrade grinned. “I love you too.”

 

John woke and stretched. The bed was gigantic. The light streaming through the blinds was far, far too bright though.

“Stu-moo-guh,” Lestrade said, his face half buried in the pillow, reaching to wrap his arm around John.

“Got to go to the loo,” John answered, swinging his legs off the bed and regretting such a sudden movement.

“Mmmmmm.” Lestrade allowed his arm to flop onto the bed.

 

John staggered to the huge bathroom, and drank two glasses of water before heading to the toilet. Then he rooted through his wash bag and found a box of painkillers, taking two, and two more with him back to the bedroom for Lestrade.

“Ibuprofen,” he said, nudging Lestrade.

 

By the time their breakfast arrived they were both feeling slightly more human, and John was starting to piece together some memories from the after-show party, which still mainly felt like a ridiculous dream, filled with far, far too much alcohol and an improbably array of celebrities, from Simon Cowell to some apparently famous twenty-somethings from a reality show that he’d never heard of.

The two young men who had arrived with their food quickly and efficiently set everything out on the table, from juices and cereals to full cooked breakfasts and pancakes, and a very large jug of coffee.

“I’ll just leave the newspapers here, Sir,” one of them said. “And if there’s anything else at all you need, just call us, we’ll be up immediately.”

“Cheers,” Lestrade nodded, and headed for the coffee pot before they’d even left the room.

They ate almost in silence, although John couldn’t help but glance at the stack of newspapers, knowing that inside them would be the words that could make or break the show.

Finally Lestrade poured another cup of coffee and headed back to the bed, sitting back against the headboard, and closing his eyes.

“Go on then.”

“Go on….what?” John asked.

“You’ve been dying to read them. So…go on. Be gentle though.”

John stood and hesitantly picked up the stack. He sat on the end of the bed, leafing through to find the entertainment news. The photo of the band was splashed across the top of the page, and inset was a photo of he and Lestrade, both smiling and waving.

‘Perfect duet for Rox frontman’ said the caption.

“So?” Lestrade prompted.

“Hang on, hang on,” John scanned through the article, a smile growing across his face.

“‘As hard as it is to believe, finally a great rock act have managed to make a great musical. The story is snappy, and the songs are used to punctuate, rather than being shoe-horned in. The young cast were exemplary, and it’s hard to imagine this is a production tinged with tragedy.’ Um…then it picks out a few of the cast, then it talks about…oh… ‘Lestrade walked the red carpet with a new man on his arm. Ex-army doctor John Watson is perhaps the most unlikely in Lestrade’s string of lovers, and the two were brought together in the most unlikely way, as Watson is the right-hand man of Sherlock Holmes, private detective know for solving the most difficult of cases for Scotland Yard’.”

Lestrade blew out a breath. “Should it be ‘most unlikely’?” he asked. “Or ‘least likely’?”

John looked at him for a second, then burst out laughing. “That…they say all that, and that’s what you take from it?”

Lestrade laughed too. “No, no, it’s great. I mean, about the show. But…’string of lovers’? And…doesn’t Sherlock hate being called a private detective?”

John nodded. “He does. God, he really really does. But he won’t read this, so we’re probably safe.”

John reached for the next in the stack, and continued reading out snippets to Lestrade. The reviews were largely favourable, with only a few gripes and grumbles. John couldn’t stop smiling, although it felt very odd reading the opinions offered about their relationship - particularly from the people who were sure that he had previously been going out with Sherlock.

“Hey, you missed something, here,” Lestrade said, looking up from the paper he’d picked up.

“Oh?” John reached out.

Lestrade handed over the paper, and John realised it wasn’t a review, but a sheet of paper slid in between the pages. he frowned, realising it was photographs of the interior of a house or flat. A large glossy kitchen, a massive sitting room, and two separate roof terraces.

“This…” he read the short piece, written above.

‘A beautifully presented three-bed, three-bath property, overlooking Regent’s Park, with roof terraces, a porter and secure underground parking.’

 

“What…?” he began.

“I think there’s more on the back,” Lestrade said, innocently.

John flipped the sheet over. There was a picture of a bedroom, one wall was all windows and access to one of the terraces. it looked light and airy, and very large. Underneath was more text.

‘This is just up the road from Baker Street. And I might buy it. You could spend your days with Sherlock, doing what you love. When I’m busy, or out of the country, your best friend would be just around the corner.

No pressure. No expectations. But if you would come and see it with me, it would make me very happy.’

John looked up. “You…seriously? You want to…buy, a whole…”

Lestrade shrugged and nodded. “I want to be with you. And I don’t want to take you away from what you love.”

“But your house, I mean, it’s…”

“I can work something out with the house. Sell it, rent it, just…set it up so some of the youngsters I sponsor can go and use the studio, I don’t know. It’s just…just a house. And now, it’s…it hasn’t got the best of memories, has it?”

John blew out a breath. “It…well…no. But…to move back into London? I mean, it just seems…”

“Just…come and look? We might hate it. It’s…and I can always get somewhere else, too. I just…I don’t want to presume that you’ll want to leave London, and your friends, your job. I’ve…well, I can do this. And if it doesn’t work out, I can do something else.”

John dumped the papers off his lap, crawling over them, creasing them under his knees as he wrapped his arms around Lestrade and buried his face in Lestrade’s neck.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to each and every one of you who has taken the time to read this. Thank you for the kudos, and thank you especially for the comments. It's really been amazing, given how long this has taken me to finish. You guys have kept me going :)


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